














/ 







; 




^ fT. ■ ' t,\ - ■! ilM - V' ' V 



> i • 




^ ; 


. t 


.< I 

> < • 




■'. :J. 


V 


, > 




'■¥ '•' 
i^S*' .' 

n 


vr. 


t •< - ■ * ‘ '' '•- "jti >• , ?1 ■ ‘B;® 

, 'r, ■■ ••; ■-■•V ' . .r-:’ ■ 

?' 






•* % 


'‘■.cl. jffiw 

Mn 



« I 




% 

I 

. V 


a:' 


-/ 


I 


> » 


V ■ 


/ / V ' •’ 


.' A ■ . 

i»* **A' > 

I < 


t 

• V 

. -f .1 




. • '• ^ V I • •• 

' ■■ ,' .’ -Si' ' 

it 




'V' , Aii'w ■' •V*'*-^ 


'; ■ ' . ■ • %,£ . .'U ‘:'i 


, J{. . : 



. ' I 




- . ■ vE^;^V:'v 




• ^ \ • • mX' «r>« 

■'. ■•'■'•■ •■ 'Mp-;'-'.?' ;-:''Si ® - 


r 


r- 



-N. 


> ■ y ■ . .H 


1 ■ * 


;»5- .. 

^V' 


\* ' 


<*> ■* u ., •/, • ^ ■' 


, ^ 'r f * » .' • i '• J ' *_ 




• 1 


• I" 



V ; t 


X --v ': 


k I 


i ^ ; 


L ^ 


' ' \ l-r ■• • • 


m’i' 


\ / » 


N 'r 




o 







•■(• 


t.J:- " 
/cv*P'’ t ' 

4 » * rtp^ * ' 


.:■’: A? - . '■ fi" s - 


V 







. ^ ?' ... 


I . ,, 
I » • I 

n.' 


.rt. ‘ 


I . ‘ n. 


• % ,’. 


M . *,• 


4 >viV’' ' -i ■' ••. . ' I ' 








'A 





. ■- - A 

< » 



'UtA 







WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


V: 


>*v« 


k v.-. ' ^ 

V' 


ilii«l^i*?S'S#^?i*|™| 

. '■ ■ ' : ' ,'■.'■•■ -Wwll 

V;- ,V '':A ^ ' ■ ^ ■ '-'fr V 

.: •'*•■ V s iV ■ ,'. ^.V*9 


■Am 

vv‘ ' *• 


Sf v*^ * ' I 

V. 

j*.:; ;*■■''' 

rtA. V. c» t 


" .'v 

■lu' VM •!* . 

p/'W 

^' .A' ' 


liUM 

ie 


I’ . ^ *1 

W**" * f' 


I , 


y : . 

- V.//- 


P.yy 


^1 . • 


:*v>c,l, ':^, 
AavV.', 

‘r, '■:••■ 

/'Y . 

■ ■ 



^I '< • < • 




' . I 


V ■ <'* " "■ r\ 

T ^ /' ’ , f. : V 


't.Wt'. ■ <: . 

::r'v' . . 

Kfi'ip - . 

B<> V. '^'V .; /- »■> 

■V • f • I* » . « • « 

■ ■■ 


IW> -'i'PP • P ■ 

• 'r -'■> ■ 


"t; 


1 * • 


,li 


’>_ 


> 

/ 




■%. I 

^ ^ 


S 4 « 


f ■ ' 

• i... .. . • . . 

V H * . - ■ 

»V>#. , 


. < 

• I 







WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


BY 

ELINOR MORDAUNT c p 



NEW YORK 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
1919 



V. i 





s 

I 




I 


« 


. • I 






*■ 


< 

C c 

• C 

« c ( 


* 

Y.. 


, t 


/ 




. V 

* ’ 


J 


in . 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 



CHAPTER I 

It was the second week after Christmas, and it seemed to 
Hugh D’Eath, driving through the country town, with its 
sprawling suburbs, too large for any individuality, too 
small for mystery, that the whole place — the shops with 
their unwanted Christmas gifts, their display of useless 
rubbish, strings of colored paper, lanterns, flags — wore a 
jaded look, as did the people, their hands deep in pockets or 
muffs, bent half double before the icy wind which swept 
scraps of straw and paper along with it. Merriment had 
been an effort; and now, once the festive season was well 
past, the inhabitants of Cottingham gave it up, relapsing into 
that state of liver and languor common to such places. 
Only from out the windows of the club, with lamps already 
lighted though it was but just three o^clock, there streamed 
a warm glow. Hugh D^Eath knew exactly what was going 
on there ; some of the men were nodding after their lunch, 
some playing bridge; some reiterating — as they always did 
reiterate — ^their opinion that England was going to the dogs, 
or worrying the already ragged question of Home Rule. 

He remembered when he was a boy of nineteen driving 
down to this very club to fetch his father home, the day 
after Beaconsfield died — the very day before his parents 
went abroad, on that trip which ended so fatally ; and how 
his father had met an acquaintance, stood on the steps with 
him discussing Home Rule and the machinations of the 
Government, exactly as they still discussed it whenever 


2 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


Hugh D’Eath, a man of fifty-two by now, happened to find 
himself obliged, waiting for his daughters or a train, to put 
in half an hour or so at the place, hoary with Toryism, a 
trifle bloated with a surfeit of gossip. 

It was cold in the town. But as the horses began to 
breast the five long miles which wound steadily uphill to 
Dene Royal the wind cut like a knife. D’Eath shuddered 
to think what it must have been like for Barnett on the box, 
full in the teeth of it. It did not matter about the footman, 
he was young and full-blooded; but between Barnett and 
his master there was that odd sort of likeness which one 
sometimes sees in old family servants. For Barnett, also, 
was thin and austerely wistful ; might just as well have been 
an actor or a bishop as a coachman. 

As to D’Eath himself, surely there was never any man 
less like a country squire. And yet he had never been any- 
thing else, had come into possession even before he was of 
age. 

For all that, his appearance, his expression told the truth. 
Barnett’s air of intellectual refinement was skin deep; in 
reality he was all coachman; there was no one for miles 
around who knew more about horses, their management and 
doctoring. The vet’s bitter animosity bore witness to this. 
But his master’s whole personality, his expression, his 
rather tentative way of moving, the dreaminess of his blue 
eyes, the delicacy of his finely cut features, expressed him 
exactly as he was : with too much humor for an actor, too 
much mysticism for a bishop; and yet with something at 
once devotional and histrionic in his nature. Never as yet 
quite satisfied, never quite happy, always with a feeling of 
waiting for something to happen, waiting until he was alto- 
gether grown up — at fifty-two! Never very sure of him- 
self, what he owed to others, how much right they, or he, 
had to dominate. And yet not altogether unhappy; very 
much amused, in his own sly way, at the odd twists of 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


3 


human nature and conscience; like a sensitive plate to ail 
impressions of beauty or kindness; very curious to know 
how other people felt, what they thought, how much affec- 
tion they got out of life — even working people, and servants, 
whom his own family did not credit with any feelings at all. 

The last part of the hill, before the white Cotswold road 
dropped to the village and rose again through the park to 
the house, was by far the worst. The horses had been 
roughened, but even thus they found difficulty in keeping 
their feet, and every time they slipped Hugh D’Eath bent 
himself together with a sharp breath. Why couldn’t Mary 
have sent the motor ? It was not a fit day to have the horses 
out. There was a tight feeling in his own chest, a labor- 
ing sensation at his heart ; it was almost as though he him- 
self were pulling the heavy brougham all these miles against 
the collar. 

Whatever had possessed his forbears to build a house 
in such a position, at the top of such a hill? To gather a 
village around its feet, solely for their own convenience, at 
the end of a little valley — a mere cul-de-sac for the east 
wind, colder than the open hillside? Just, or so it seemed, 
that man and beast should have some uphill work, whether 
they came from or went to the town. 

The village with its gray stone houses, very neat and 
in good repair, looked so cold, with the stripped trees, that 
it gave an odd impression of ‘‘ staring ” like a horse’s coat. 
The children were still in school, the men at work, every 
door and window was shut. D’Eath found himself wonder- 
ing how old Oxley with his bronchitis fared in such weather, 
and, calling to Barnett through the speaking-tube, bade him 
stop at the cottage. 

Oxley’s married daughter opened the door, only a crack 
giving the impression of a thin slice of highly colored, 
choleric femininity. Then seeing the squire she flung it 
wider and invited him in. “ The wind blows some’ut cruel 


4 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


in these ’ere ’ouses, with the doors set as they do be.” She 
spoke with the slow Gloucestershire drawl, but she was not 
so stupid as she seemed. If the squire would build on a 
little hallway and sitting-room, with a bedroom over it, 
there would be accommodation for at least four more 
lodgers. 

Her father was ‘‘ desperate lear,” but what could you 
expect? '‘Close on ninety, one can’t look fur’un to last 
long now; not with what we’re able to give’un. Though 
it’s to be hoped as he won’t go off yet awhile; fur the 
ground’s as hard as hard, no gettin’ a spade into it, so 
sexton was tellin’ me only ter day. ' An’ it ain’t not ter be 
expected,’ ’e says, says ’e, ' as some’un won’t not be spite- 
ful enuff to go dyin’ on me afore frosties do break.’ ” 

Old Oxley, in his bed in the kitchen, with the patchwork 
quilt drawn up to his chin — the kitchen was the warmest 
place, he was best there, besides, there would be no end to 
the running about if he were upstairs — glanced sideways at 
D’Eath with cunning, triumphant eyes. He was the oldest 
man in the village, and did not mean to render up his 
proud position by dying yet awhile; besides, he "did ’em 
in proper” by living—despite all that the sexton might 
say. 

" I looks ter Lord,” he said quaveringly. " There ain’t 
nothing that I cares fur now barrin’ kingdom o’ ’Eaven, 
an’ me bit o’ bacco, an’ the soup as Miss Mary do send me.” 

When D’Eath left the cottage he was poorer by a shill- 
ing towards tobacco for the old man, and four and six- 
pence for a iegendar)?^ fowl killed by a fox the very same 
night after Lord Egginton had drawn the little spinney at 
the back of the village. " It’s runnin’ ’em foxesses as 
makes ’em that set and bold like,” was what old Oxley’s 
daughter said, adding that of course she knew as " ’ow 
the gentry must ’ave their exercise.” 

Barnett, walking the horses to keep them warm, was 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


5 


unnecessarily far up the road. When he returned his face 
was set like that of a judge. Sorry to have kept you 
waiting, Barnett — ^this cold and all,” murmured D’Eath, 
while the old man touched his hat, without moving a 
muscle. He was fond of his master, but when he apologized 
to him he despised him. Then, to think of taking his horses 
up and down those hills two days running, and having to 
keep them waiting in the cold for the sake of that old Oxley 
and his runt of a daughter. It was too much of a good 
thing. 

Hugh D’Eath, with his agonizing faculty for realizing 
what other people thought or felt, pulled his coat collar up 
tighter around his throat as he huddled back in the corner 
of the brougham; bending a little forward over that tire- 
some heart of his, trying his very best not to drag horses, 
carriage, coachman, footman, up that last steep mile ; work- 
ing all the harder in that he realized his own want of 
consideration in keeping them waiting. 

Heaven knew that he had not wished to take that drive 
two days running. He would never have thought of it if it 
had not been that Tuesday afternoon was the only time 
Sir Humphrey could see him, and Mary said that it would 
look so strange if he was not at home again in time for the 
dance and dinner on Wednesday night. 

He had not wanted to come home, and this odd shrinkr 
ing — almost like the feeling of a boy going back to school — 
was growing upon him. Several times lately he had been 
up to town just for one night ; if he went for longer it was 
certain that Mary, or his sister Gertie — who saw a chance 
of doing some shopping, being taken about in taxis and 
having their hotel bills paid — would insist on accompanying 
him ; failing them there was Irene or Vera, or even one of 
the nieces. They used to laugh at him, and say, quite good- 
naturedly : “You know, darling, you are so absent-minded ; 
it really is not safe to trust you alone.” 


6 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


When he went up for only one night they trusted him 
because there was really so little they could do, so few 
people they could see in the time. 

Sometimes D’Eath used to wonder if there had ever been 
any man so ruthlessly chaperoned, almost from the very 
cradle. He thought of this in the brougham, and his mouth 
twisted to an odd half -smile. “ From the cradle to the 
grave,” literally, if things went on as they were doing now. 
Even after his parents died there had always been his aunts 
and his eldest sister, who had chosen his rooms at Oxford. 
When he was twenty-one he had married, with the idea that 
this step would mean a wider liberty. But it did nothing of 
the kind. He had wanted to travel, but he could not travel 
because there was always a baby coming, or just come. 
Sometimes, in his rueful, whimsical way, he found himself 
wondering how it happened, or why it always happened. 
His wife was a nice woman, a sensible woman, a very good 
wife and mother. But his eldest daughter, just on thirty 
by now, was so like her that her place seemed to be filled 
at once, with no chance of any variety. So much so that 
Hugh felt himself in the position of a woman who puts on 
her nightgown before she takes off her chemise — ^there was 
no time to feel lonely, chilly. Very often he called Mary 
“ Clara ” by mistake. There was no upheaval, no jar, none 
of those things which make for growth. His other daugh- 
ters were like his sisters, like his aunts, though less senti- 
mental, a trifle harder ; just as obstinate, but without being 
meek. 

True, Irene went in for a classical education — college. 
For all that she was every bit as narrow as the older gen- 
eration of women: nothing and nobody was right, worth 
considering, apart from her own little set. “ Outsiders ” 
were as irremediably outsiders as “ nobodies ” had once 
been nobodies ; she was as self-conscious over her learning 
and her cigarettes as they had been over their croquet and 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


7 

crinolines. It was just as dreadful to be “ proper ” as it 
had once been to be “ improper.” 

Vera, with her young men, her worsted stockings, her 
brogued shoes, dogs, slang, was incrusted county; so was 
George in diplomacy — George, who had learned foreign lan- 
guages for the sake of passing his examinations and then 
forgotten them, because it was other people’s business to 
know English, and there “ was always a consul chap ” ; 
Charles, the soldier, with his sleek head and that stiff, aloof 
air of a well-bred terrier; and Harold, his Uncle Horace’s 
curate, inclined to be high, as Horace himself had seemed 
high in the old days. 

Sometimes, to Hugh’s mind, their reiteration appeared 
beyond bearing. Then he would reproach himself. It was 
he who was to blame, he who was different, he who did 
not care overmuch for horses, hated hunting and pheasant 
drives, had a sneaking sympathy for poachers, paid away 
quite a considerable sum in fines for the men whom he was 
forced by custom, in his capacity of magistrate, to condemn. 

Of course it did not do for men to beat their wives, but 
through and through him he understood, felt for, the in- 
articulate exasperation which grew and grew till it over- 
came Hodge on coming home to the same wife, the same 
“ Wipe yer boots, you great stoopid, an’ go round by the 
back door, an* mind the baby while I get the tea, an’ don’t 
you never again let me catch you smellin’ o’ beer when yer 
come home a’ Saturday night, with sixpence short o’ your 
wages as would ’a gone ter the burial club,” day after day, 
for sixteen years and more. 

He felt that, as he felt the desperate, mad misery of the 
girl who left her hedge-born baby in the ditch, covered with 
leaves, and dragged on without it, only a mile or so behind 
the blackguard who owned her — “ that dreadfully unnatural 
creature ! ” as the married ladies, with nurseries and nurse- 
maids, called her. 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


S 


He alone of all the magistrates realized the sense of 
humor which impelled that lout Willy Nash to turn the key 
on the congregation of Primitives ” just at the very 
moment when they were singing, ‘‘ My soul is like a rusty 
lock/’ keeping them imprisoned, dinnerless, through the 
entire length of a stifling summer’s afternoon. 

They had sung that hymn at Laishen’s Chapel when 
Hugh D’Eath was a child, in exactly the same nasal drawl : 

**My soul is like a rusty lock. 

Oh, oil it with Thy grace; 

And rub it, rub it, rub it. Lord, 

That I may see Thy face.” 

D’Eath’s one regret, when he reluctantly condemned the 
boy to a thrashing from his father, was that he had never 
thought of that fine irony of turning the key himself at 
Willy’s age. 


CHAPTER II 


When the hill was at last surmounted, and D’Eath entered 
the door of his own house, he found that all the furniture 
had been turned out of the big central hall in readiness 
for the dance that night, and the whole place was in the 
hands of gardeners. He heard Vera’s laugh and caught 
sight of a pair of neat heather-tinted ankles halfway up a 
ladder; from still further aloof sounded the voice of her 
latest pal — ‘‘ admirer,” the aunts called it. 

“ Oh, I say, look here. Miss Vera, isn’t that a bit of 
‘ all right ’ ? What’s that for a professional — eh ? ” 

From the dining-room came Mary’s level tones, in confab 
with the butler. Irene was in the library, seated at a table 
surrounded by books, her fingers rather ostentatiously 
stuffed in her ears : though she glanced up so sharply when 
her father entered the room that it was evident she was 
really listening, or expecting somebody else. 

There were spots of oil on the study hearthrug and 
scraps of dirty tow ; some one had been cleaning a gun in 
front of the fire, none too carefully. The fire was very 
nearly out. D’Eath shivered as he drew up a chair as close 
as he could get it, and rang the bell ; told the young footman 
to bring some fresh coal, then murmured something about 
tea. 

The coal was brought, dumped on to the dying fire with 
so much energy that it immediately succumbed; but there 
was still no sign of tea when, nearly an hour later, Mary 
appeared on the scene. 

“Father, what are you sitting there for? I couldn’t 
make out where you had got to ; and the fire dead out on a 
day like this ! ” 


9 


10 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


She rang the bell and ordered sticks and paper; a fresh- 
faced housemaid appeared, and in a few moments the fire 
was blazing brightly. 

“Why didn’t you ring before — make them see to it? 
Really, dear, don’t you think you could look after 
yourself a little on a day like this, when we’re all so 
busy ? ” 

“ I know ; I didn’t want to give them more trouble than 
I could help.” 

“ Them ! You hopeless man ! What about me if I had 
you laid up with pneumonia ? Did you get lunch on the way 
down ? ” 

“No, I thought I would have some tea directly I got 
here ; meals in the train are detestable.” 

“Well, have you had your tea?” 

“ No ; I asked Peter, but perhaps he didn’t hear me. 
And I expect James is having his dinner; he came to the 
station, you know. A terrible drive he and old Barnett must 
have had.” 

“ Peter always hears me. If you’d only be a little firmer 
with the servants, father, it would make it so much easier. 
But now, tea’s in the drawing-room, and the Ewarts have 
just arrived; so you’d better come along and have it with 
us.” She spoke brightly, glancing over him, past him all 
the while — mentally rearranging the room for bridge that 
evening. 

“Yes, of course. It’s no good having two teas, is it? 
Everybody as busy as they can be, I suppose.” 

D’Eath, conscious of the rather meaningless drag of 
words, felt that he was beginning to say things in an old 
man’s way, as though to appear alert, interested. He hated 
being meek, and it seemed to him — as it so often did when 
he was at home, particularly w;th Mary — that this was what 
he was growing to be. 

And yet he was conscious that he not only spoke but 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


II 


moved like an old man, his hands on the arms of bis 
chair as he raised himself ; even Mary noticed it. 

“Are you very tired, father? Would you rather have 
your tea here alone in peace?” 

“ No, no.” A moment before he had hated the very 
idea of the Ewarts, with their aggressive geniality. Now, 
of a sudden, he felt that anything was better than being 
alone. 

Mary took his arm; she was genuinely disturbed by his 
pallor, his air of languor. “ You should not go so long 
without food; you want your tea, that’s what it is.” 

It seemed as though the family could never get away 
from the immediate needs of the moment, food and drink. 
And yet during the next hour D’Eath was aware that his 
eldest daughter’s brown eyes, kind and shining, yet in a 
way so shallow, were constantly sliding past him, as though 
she did not want to appear to notice. It really was amusing. 
Did she ignore, or did she only pretend to ignore ? 

His sister Caroline, with her pronounced D’Eath fore- 
head and chin, that almost overdone matronly air which 
seems the special heritage of so many country old maids — 
as though all the good advice they had given in regard to 
other people’s children had endowed them with a pride of 
vicarious motherhood — glanced up from her knitting when 
he entered the room ; nodded, “ So you’re back, I see. 
I hope you had a nice time. Did you run against any one 
you know? But I suppose there’s scarcely a soul in town 
so soon after Christmas ? ” while Vera wanted to know if 
he had remembered to call for her watch. 

Suddenly, for no reason in the world, D’Eath lied. 
“It wasn’t quite finished,” he declared; at which Vera 
jerked her chin, with a remark upon the unreliability of 
tradesmen. “ Really they seem to have no conscience I ” 
she said. 

Her father, sipping his tea, sunk deep in a high-winged 


12 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


chair, with that air of a pope, wondered whether the people 
at the Goldsmiths and Silversmiths’ Company would give 
him away to the next person who called for the watch; 
and if so, what would be said about his conscience? But 
quite suddenly he had felt that he could not bear the in- 
evitable chorus of Oh, isn’t that just like father ? ” if he 
owned that he had completely forgotten the commission — 
the watch — Vera herself. 

Yes, that was it. For once he had forgotten every one 
of them — what they represented in his life. For once — 
for how many hours? — from three o’clock the day before 
until he actually saw Barnett sitting on his box outside 
the station — ^he had thought of nobody but himself : his 
whole mind drawn out to a fine point of agonized self- 
realization, self-pity. 

The only thought he had of his home, of the people so 
closely interwoven with it, was contained in that indefinable 
shrinking from the return; the getting back to that routine 
which, while he changed — ^had changed so wonderfully 
during the last few hours that he felt like a person set 
apart, surveying his world, even himself, from a great dis- 
tance — still remained so completely the same. 

“ I wonder if anything, if the upheaval, even the end of 
the world, would make Cjiroline drop a stitch ? ” he thought 
to himself. 

It was so characteristic that, while they all inquired as 
to his doings, were so interested to hear that he had met 
Isabel Ingram at the corner of White Horse Street, no 
single one of them referred to his actual reason for this 
visit to town. 

His brother Horace’s two girls were there from the Rec- 
tory, and halfway through tea Harold, his youngest son, 
his uncle’s curate — only just ordained and super-clerical 
in the way he rubbed his hands — came in with a sad, 
moralizing tale of a recalcitrant choir-boy; Harold, only 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


13 


three-and-twenty, already prosy. Then George and Charles 
appeared with their recital of the day’s shooting over 
Egginton’s coverts. 

“ They’ve got fifteen people staying in the house for to- 
night, apart from their own little lot,” added George. Then 
gave an odd, aloof nod in the direction of his wife — so 
like his kind, almost as loth as a Spaniard to make any 
acknowledgment of the relationship in public. “ That 
pretty little Mrs. Filsen’s there, Peggy. You’ll have to put 
on your best bib and tucker to-night if you mean to cut her 
out.” 

“ I can’t even hope to be in the running.” Peggy D’Eath 
shrugged her rather thin shoulders ; she was slim now — only 
two-and-twenty, yet in another year or so, thought D’Eath, 
watchful in his chair, she would be meager. I’ve nothing 
but that old mauve rag — centuries old.” 

“ Really there’s not much to choose between her and old 
Oxley’s daughter,” thought her father-in-law, knowing full 
well that, before the evening was over, he would respond 
to her insistent “ willing ” that he should volunteer a new 
gown for the hunt ball. Sooner or later Peggy always got 
what she wanted; though it was not by coaxing, rather 
by some 'method of wearing down the very fiber of resist- 
ance. 

He had never criticised his belongings in this way be- 
fore, he was too habituated to them * for relations are like 
fashions — you grow accustomed to what you would never 
have willingly chosen. / 

But Sir Humphrey’s verdict had put him, as it were, 
“ on a mountain apart.” These young people of his ! How 
many books had been written of late, how many plays pro- 
duced with that one theme of the wrongness and tyranny 
of the old, the clear-sighted analysis of the young? 

Suddenly it amused D’Eath to turn the tables. They 
realized so mercilessly what their elders had arrived at. 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


14 

But really the advantage in criticism was on the side of age. 
It was more piquant to realize, as he did, exactly whither 
they, in their turn, were trending. George, for instance, 
how he laughed at his maternal uncle, the Squire of Thorns, 
with his narrow pomposity ; and yet, even now, George him- 
self might be caught puffing his cheeks, laying down the 
law, patronizing his wife. There was Irene, with a chin 
like her Aunt Caroline, and just as little humor; and 
Mary, with her obstinate disregard for “ outsiders ” ; and 
Harold, palely unctuous, where his uncle was red, a blend 
of female cousins in the form of a curate. They were all 
tending in the same direction ; the county had them in its 
maw, chewing them down to an indistinguishable pulp. 

Perhaps that was the real reason for their self-assertion 
and restlessness — all in the small, confined so to speak ; the 
restlessness that wants parties and people, not worlds. Deep 
down in their inner consciousness they must have known 
that they were growing to be exactly like the last genera- 
tion, or even more the one before that. 

Presently the whole party dispersed. There was still 
plenty to do in preparation for the dance that evening — 
buttonholes to make, programs to see to. George asked 
for the key of the cellar; and, after the delay which in- 
evitably occurred on such occasions, for D’Eath could never 
remember where he had put it, went off to get out the 
wine. 

The aunts — Caroline, with her chin, ten years older than 
D’Eath, and Gertie, his youngest, widowed sister, who was 
still fond of dancing, but needed a good deal of preparation 
— departed to their own rooms to rest. Usually they lived 
in their own flat in town, but Christmas in “the dear old 
home,” as Gertie put it, was still one of the laws of the 
Medes and Persians. 

Some one said, “What are you going to do, father? 
Hadn’t you better rest too ? ” But the question was too 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


15 


Careless to need any special answer, and D’Eath remained 
silent, sitting bent a little forward in his chair, his hands 
resting upon the arms. 

For half an hour there was peace; no one appeared to 
clear away the tea; now and then, with a soft sigh, some 
glowing log dropped to gray ash in the wide, open fire- 
place. 

The room was panelled in white, hung with water-colors 
in gold mounts. During the day it was a trifle chill; but 
now, in the softened light of shaded lamps, it appeared 
charming. There were flowers everywhere, azaleas in 
pots, and great bowls of hothouse blossoms. It was well 
arranged — because for many years certain people had 
grown accustomed to sitting in certain places, drawing their 
special chairs into the position which suited them — well 
ordered, shining. 

For no reason at all D’Eath’s mind suddenly darted 
away from its rather shamed acknowledgment of Mary’s 
perfection as a housekeeper, to a Salvation Army lass 
whom he had seen banging her tambourine at the corner of 
Chapel Street, on his way to Paddington that afternoon. 

It looked like fun, life; the lassie’s cheeks were almost as 
red as the ribbons in her bonnet. 

And here was he: under glass, as it were. 

It really was funny how they had all, every one of 
them, the two generations siding for once, deliberately 
avoided any question as to what Sir Humphrey had said. 

It was not accidental, but deliberate, prearranged col- 
lusion. 

Mary had started it. Mary whom every one declared, 
and with truth, was such a devoted daughter; Mary who, 
when any of her female friends suggested marriage, sighed, 
then smiled brightly, and said : Oh — well, you see — ^there’s 
dear father.” Father was fanciful, nervous about his heart. 
It was nothing but indigestion, that was what Doctor 


i6 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


Soames said. He had doctored them all, never misled 
them; there seemed no reason to doubt his word now. 

This was the third time her father had been up to see 
a London doctor. It was evident that he had not been 
ordered to bed, instructed to change his ways of life. There 
was not even a prescription. 

The whole of the D’Eath family, all the Colburns — 
Mrs. D’Eath had been a Colburn — were exceedingly strong 
and healthy. The D’Eaths were thin like wire, the Col- 
burns had the well-covered, plump resilience of india- 
rubber. True, Mrs. D’Eath had died before she was forty. 
But then she died of pneumonia, a definite, well-defined 
complaint. Directly the doctor saw her he had ordered 
bed, a cotton- wool jacket, poultices, medicines; one knew 
where one was. Of course there had been other illnesses 
in the house, mostly contagious — measles, influenza. But 
always — the first thing was bed and a prescription. 

The prescription seemed like a sort of certificate, carry- 
ing with it the right to very special care. 

Mary was a competent nurse ; kind when people were ill, 
taking their temperatures, feeling their pulses. Vera stood 
on the threshold and shouted — “ Hullo ! how are you ? 
Pretty perky, eh? ” Irene did not appear at all, she thought 
all illness disgusting. As to the aunts, they opened the 
door a crack, said I thought I must pop in to see if you 
have everything you want,” and advanced no further, be- 
cause “ one never knows, things are so catching ! ” 

Then the old nurse came with her sewing and mounted 
guard. 

That was illness. Every one knew about it, particularly 
the housemaids who carried heavy trays, with a great deal 
of unnecessary silver upon them, up and down steep back 
stairs. 

If Hugh was really ill, how could he have taken that 
long journey two days running?” Miss D’Eath had whis- 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


17 

pered this to her sister Gertie over the tea-table, in a stage 
whisper that carried farther than any ordinary tone. 

There was a moment’s pause, for Mrs. St. John had 
been engaged in calculating how long it would take her — 
allowing for a good hour’s rest — with steaming her face, 
manicuring, massaging, to make ready for the evening’s 
festivities. Fenton was so slow waving her hair, but then 
she did it well. 

Even when the verdict came it was absent-minded, 
weighted with more serious matter. Hugh thinks far too 
much about himself, that’s what it is. When a man gets to 
his age ” 

The remainder of the sentence was lost. But it had set 
D’Eath wondering what they would, could, have said, had 
they known how almost fiercely he had been thinking of 
himself during the last twenty-four hours. 

Not that he believed, for one single moment, that Sir 
Humphrey’s verdict was correct. He had already seen two 
other specialists, and they had only hummed and hawed, 
advised him to go “ a bit slow ” — ^As if he ever did any- 
thing else! He was like Noah and his ark, with all those 
sons, daughters, near and distant relatives, hangers on, 
tenants ; even the very shopkeepers seemed to imagine that 
they had some sort of proprietary right over him. It had 
been left to this last famous personage, counting your heart- 
beats in guineas, to throw out the hint that he might very 
soon cease to go ” at all. “ Like a clock which has got 
beyond all repairing,” D’Eath had thought, though even this 
did not help to remind him of Vera’s watch. 

Sir Humphrey believed in telling his patients the truth; 
but he had done his best not to depress him. 

‘‘ So long as there’s life there’s hope.” He had used the 
phrase so often that it had grown to seem original, came 
with the air of making a discovery. And after all there 
was no knowing what the course of German waters, which 


t 

i8 WHILE THERE’S LIFE^‘ 

he so strongly recommended to his patient, might do. The 
recuperative powers of the human body are almost beyond 
belief,” he declared ; and then complimented D’Eath on his 
coolness and courage. 

Curiously enough, if D’Eath was excited at all it was with 
a sense of adventure. At last things were beginning to 
happen. 

He had always been deeply curious concerning the things 
of the spirit, the possibilities of an after life. He had 
thought of it in church, with Horace’s sonorous sermons 
‘ rolling past him. ’ Soon he would be finding out things ; he, 
the unadventurous, launched forth upon the great adven- 
ture, supposing that Sir Humphrey Spender had been right. 

In any case he felt oddly free, apart from the clogging 
obligations, affections, of a lifetime. 

Almost like a man stripped for a race, with the wind 
about his limbs. 

Some one entered the room with a long sliding step. 
The master of the house snuggled closer in his chair, hoping 
that it was only one of the servants to clear away the tea. 
For he did not want to be disturbed; felt that if Caroline 
came in, unrolled her knitting, began with And now, 
Hugh, tell me what gossip you have brought back from 
town, what had Isabel to say for herself ? ” he might equally 
well scream or curse, even spit; not with the venom of a 
foreigner, but with the rude, deliberate disregard of an 
English navvy. 

But it was not either of his sisters ; neither was it Col- 
lins, the butler, for the step, subdued as it was by the depth 
of carpet, had slid, not paced ; while he now realized that the 
movements around the tea-table were far too delicate to be 
made by either of the young footmen. 

And yet he was left alone, in peace. No one exclaimed 
** My dear Hugh,” or “ My dear father—what a start you 
gave me ! ” 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


19 


He peeped round the wing of his chair; a book he had 
taken up in self-defense, for it provoked exclamations if he 
was ever found to be sitting in complete idleness, dropped 
to the floor, a startled voice cried “ Oh ! ” and Susie, his 
youngest daughter, appeared in front of him upon the 
hearthrug. 

“ I didn’t know any one was here. They’ve eaten all the 
buttered toast — pigs! Oh, well, it would have been cold, 
anyhow.” She was nibbling a cocoanut cake as she spoke, 
biting at it with her front teeth like a squirrel. 

“ Haven’t you had any tea ? ” 

School-room tea I ” Susie stood for a moment nib- 
bling, staring ; then returned to the table, armed herself with 
another cake, again took up her place upon the hearthrug, 
and rcommenced her study of her father — grave, medita- 
tive, and yet friendly. 

** You look funny, somehow — different — dis — dis — disin- 
terred.” 

“ Oh, surely not quite — though really it might be — ^but 
not quite that ! ” 

“ No ; it’s not that. It’s — it’s — dis — wait a jitfy and I’ll 
get it. Oh, I know; dis — disintegrated.” 

D’Eath was interested. This word, with which Susie 
had such difflculty, no one of the others would have thought 
of it, attempted it. He had seen very little of this youngest 
child of his; she seemed to be always at school or staying 
with school friends, or being shepherded out of sight by 
Mary. 

How she had grown; she was almost a woman, though 
only just seventeen. He knew that, because he remembered 
a discussion about her frocks, which Caroline had pro- 
nounced to be too short. When I was that age I had my 
hair up and my dresses below my ankles,” she had re- 
marked, while Gertie St. John chimed in with the opinion 


20 WHILE THERE’S LIFE 

that girls were much more childish for their ages than they 
had been.” 

D’Eath thought— gazing at Susie, while Susie gazed back 
at him — that if girls developed more quickly in Carofine’s 
day they came to an end sooner. Anyhow, there was noth- 
ing childish about Susie, though she still stole sweet cakes ; 
she was too wonderfully self-possessed for that. 

** But ‘ disintegrated ’ ? What makes you say that ? ” he 
inquired. 

** I don’t know.” Susie shook her head. Her fair hair 
was parted at one side and drawn in a rather dashing 
sweep forward over one eyebrow, tied with one big black 
bow at the top of her head, and another at the extreme 
tip of a long plait. “ But all the same, that’s what I feel. 
You look different — rather as if you had been taken to 
pieces, made up again, adventurous. Treasure Islandish; 
and yet, sad, like people in love.” 

Perhaps it is that we don’t see very much of each 
other.” D’Eath spoke gravely, though he had an inward 
spasm of amusement and perhaps pleasure at his daughter’s 
last words. Then he stretched out one slender hand, and 
she laid hers in it, very warm and rather red. Her face 
was red also — for she had been riding all the afternoon in 
the bitter wind across the hills, going very slowly out of 
consideration for her pony’s feet — a pure, unbroken oval, 
pierced by a pair of wonderfully vivid blue eyes, crossed 
by very straight, fine black brows, which might have been 
done in by a Chinaman with a camel’s hair brush. 

To D’Eath’s surprise, she raised his hand and held it to 
her cheek. ** You don’t see me, but I see you.” 

** Like a mouse in the wainscoting.” The moment the 
words were out of his mouth D’Eath regretted them : it was 
the result of that family habit of certain modes of expres- 
sion for certain ages. But Susie forgave, while she cor- 
rected him : 


WHILE THERFS LIFE 


21 


“ Well, no, not like a mouse. For mice don’t think, at 
least as far as I know — anyhow, in the way I think.” 

“ What do you think ? ” 

** Oh, I don’t know — all sorts of things. How funny 
grown-up people are.” 

You’re nearly grown-up.” 

“ Seventeen last month — but grown-up !- Oh, no, I should 
hate it. Somehow it sounds so — so dreadfully finished. Do 

you know what I think ?” She broke off suddenly, as 

Mary entered the room, glancing at her with that suspicious 
resentment which most girls feel for the elder sister who 
takes the mother’s place. 

“ Susie, what are you doing here? Nanny wants to see 
about the hooks on your frock, and she is so busy! My 
dear, do look at the crumbs on the hearthrug. When I was 
your age ” 

“ You ! Oh ! ” Susie broke in with a little impatient 
laugh. “ But you see, you were ‘ then,’ and I’m ‘ now.’ ” 

The two sisters went out of the room together, Susie 
amused, acquiescent, Mary distinctly worried. Nothing, in 
all her routine of management and duty, had been too much 
for her as yet, but sometimes she was almost fearful in 
regard to Susie. 

Left alone again, D’Eath reflected that, after all, there 
was not a great deal more difference in age between himself 
and his eldest daughter than there was between her and 
Susie ; and yet that, somehow or other, in the odd circling 
fashion which is so characteristic of life, of the world and 
everything upon it, he was nearer to this schoolgirl than he 
was to any single member of his family. 


CHAPTER III 


The morning after the dance found the whole household 
cross and heavy-eyed. No one, excepting Aunt Gertie, 
stayed in bed. There were the servants, who were extra 
busy, to consider, and all the people staying in the house — 
the Ewarts and the Pratt girl, two of Charles’s brother 
officers, and others. Besides, having danced until morning, 
they all alike declared that they needed exercise. All, that 
is, save Irene, who had invited a special man-friend of her 
own, a young Cambridge poet, who preached the gospel of 
revolt and social equality, yet had his breakfast in bed — oh, 
yes, there was another exception — despite the fact that the 
servants had been up long after he and his kind, while if he 
had acted up to his convictions it was he who should have 
carried them their breakfasts up the steep and narrow 
back stairs to the top story — a Socialist who preferred 
China tea to Ceylon, which he declared only fit for scullery 
maids and other “ common ” people. 

Irene and her young man, when he did appear, elected 
to spend their morning smoking cigarettes over the study 
fire, discussing Omar and the Webbs on “ Destitution,” 
staring coldly at D’Eath, inquiring if he was looking for 
anything when he appeared upon the threshold of what was 
supposed to be his own special sanctum. 

There seemed, indeed, nowhere for him to bestow him- 
self. Mary and a footman were rearranging furniture in 
the drawing-room. A man from town was ironing the 
billiard table. The smoking-room was empty, but there was 
no fire, and one of the outdoor servants was cleaning the 
windows. 

Once, during a crisis of poverty and starvation, some 


22 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


23 


writer in “ The Annals of Agriculture ” — surely the most 
pompous, brutal, narrow-minded production which has ever 
disgraced any country — proposed that the poor should 
with their families, resort to the stables for warmth during 
the winter months, in place of wasting time in seeking for 
firewood or money in buying it. 

It seemed to D’Eath that with his ancestral mansion — 
item, twenty or more bedrooms; one drawing-room, with 
six windows and a desert of flowered carpet, in possession 
of Mary and the footman ; one study, with a sofa and quite 
six arm-chairs, and a wood fire large enough to roast an 
ox, monopolized by Irene and her young man ; one smoking- 
room, fireless ; one billiard-room, ditto ; one morning-room, 
with Caroline doing up the washing-book to help dear Mary, 
resenting any intrusion because she counted on her fingers ; 
one gun-room, warmed by a good fire, but fully occupied 
and odoriferous, with a spaniel suffering from distemper 
and being “ made comfortable in the house ” ; with an im- 
mense dining-room — another roaring fire and Peter clearing 
away breakfast — besides no one ever did sit in a dining- 
room — ^that the only chance for the master of all this was 
the stable: the stable and Frazer’s “Golden Bough,” to 
which he always resorted when the pressure of everyday 
life, his position, all that was expected of him became 
almost more than he could bear. 

He moved rather disconsolately into the hall and stood 
there; his hands in his pockets, whistling softly to him- 
self, that type of whistle which means boredom and a sort 
of dismay. 

It was not as though he had nothing to do. There 
were piles of letters to be written; a new book upon the 
Balkan troubles lay on his dressing table uncut; any mo- 
ment the groom might be expected back from Chingford 
with the Times — and the Daily Mail for the servants; the 
keeper wanted to see him about the loss of some young 


24 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


pheasants, the foxes were getting beyond a joke. He had 
half promised to walk over to Longford Farm with Cherry, 
the agent, and see whether a new floor was really needed 
in the cow-sheds, as the tenant said it was; or whether 
said tenant was merely joggling his elbow, reminding him 
of his responsibilities as landlord, insisting upon dilapida- 
tions, with one eye upon a reduction in rent, as Cherry 
declared was the case. 

Then there was that meeting of the Board of Guardians 
at Chingford. Oh, there was no end to the things which 
were waiting to be done, and at the very thought of which 
his gorge rose. 

Apart from all this, what was it Toms had said about 
marking trees that morning? — sandwiching it in ’twixt bit- 
ter complaints of the way the poor people, to whom the 
squire had given permission to gather wood, were breaking 
down, and carrying away the fences. 

“Well, one thing’s certain,” muttered D’Eath to him- 
self. “ I’ll be hanged if I’ll go and mark trees to-day, 
anyway.” His mouth twisted into a smile, which he never 
used for any save his own inanities, as he thought of Sir 
Humphrey, with his fat white hands, lopping off his own 
special branch of that family tree which had shaded Dene 
Royal for centuries; visualized himself upon his knees — 
“ Oh, woodman, spare that tree 1 ” 

He moved over to the barometer hanging at the side of 
the front door. It was going down. Yes, they had ail 
remarked upon that at breakfast. The thaw was certain 
to bring rain; it was much milder. But they would pay 
for it. Last year the snow had not come until late in 
February, and then how it had hung about. 

The weather! Good Lord, what was he, what was the 
world coming to? People talked perpetually about the 
weather, as they had talked that morning, all feeling a 
little chilly with fatigue. Old Ewart, who had accompanied 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


25 


his daughters, never talked about anything else; he was 
a very Plato of the weather — if it did not rain it would 
be fine, and if it were not fine it would rain. When they 
were not talking about it, they did as he was doing now — 
they went and tapped the glass. 

Collins appeared at his elbow. “ Please, sir, Mr. Davies 
is here ” — Davies was the bailiff — “ asking if you will be 
able to go over to the Home Farm this morning.” 

“No!” D’Eath snapped out the word. The next mo- 
ment he was sorry. After all, it was not Collins’ fault 
that things were as they were; no need to speak like a 
cad to the old fellow. He felt like going after him, 
apologizing, with a hand on his shoulder. Poor old Col- 
lins ! 

The next moment, however, Collins was back again, 
with a martyred and apologetic air. 

“ Sorry to disturb you, sir ” — it was as if, even in his 
pain, the old man, so accustomed to the ritual of country- 
house life, realized the importance of that tapping of the 
glass, the mental concentration required — “ but Mr. Davies 
says will you please tell him if you gave Mrs. Pulger leave 
to send her little boy for a pint of milk each evening? 
And was it to be charged to the farm accounts or to the 
house ? ” 

“ Oh, I suppose it’s best to charge it to the house, Col- 
lins. Less confusing for Davies’s accounts, eh? What do 
you think ? ” 

D’Eath was paying, as he always did pay, for his flashes 
of impatience; for Collins, from merely being a martyr, 
mounted his high horse. 

“ I’m sure I can’t say, sir. I attend to my own work. 
If the outside men would be a little more methodical in 
their arrangements, it seems to me as how it might be 
better for all concerned ; if you’ll excuse me mentioning it. 


26 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


It was then that D’Eath — thinking that he might as 
well submit to fate, be as martyred as his butler, choose 
the course he most disliked, order out a trap and drive 
into Chingford, which was their town, but not their station, 
for the Guardians’ meeting at eleven-thirty — glanced up and 
saw Susie descending the stairs in her riding habit. They 
exchanged greetings, and she was already at the front door 
— he rather dejectedly turned towards the stairs — when she 
swung around and spoke, a little wistfully. 

“ I suppose you wouldn’t come for a ride, father?” 

*‘Why, yes,” he was as pleased as a child at the sug- 
gestion. The very thing ! I was wondering what to do 
with myself. Where are you going? ” 

Oh, I don’t know. Unless you want to do anything 
particular, let’s go up to The Hills.” 

“ Right for you. If you are going out to the stables 
tell Griggs to saddle Trumpeter; I won’t be five min- 
utes.” 

He was strangely elated. He saw so little of Susie, 
she almost held the attraction, the possibilities of a stran- 
ger. It was nice of her asking him to go with her. They 
so seldom wanted him. Only a few days earlier he had 
heard Vera and Irene disputing as to who should accom- 
pany him to Cottingham. I don’t know why you should 
always expect me to do that sort of thing,” Vera had remon- 
strated. I know I went last time.” 

Now here was Susie, who sounded a little wistful, 
lonely; it was as though some one had thrown a thread 
across the hall, more across the intervening years, linking 
them in sympathy. 

Sir Humphrey had told him to be especially careful 
going up the stairs ; but he took them at a run ; seemed none 
the worse, save for a slight giddiness when he stooped to 
pull on his boots. 

For a quarter of a mile or so he and Susie rode in single 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


27 


file through a coppice of firs, intermixed with dwarfed oak. 
Thence they emerged upon a road between stone walls, 
with closely cropped, grayish green fields to either side, 
where a few sheep and bullocks grazed with meekly bent 
heads. 

They cut through the back of the Home Farm, where 
Davies was carting manure, through the stack-yard, past 
the sheds with the carts and agricultural implements, the 
scratching hens, the scent of bone manure and pollen ; and 
then, still mounting, came out into a deep muddy cart-track 
with high banks at either side. 

Above them, to the right, were The Hills, smooth-turfed, 
rolling, fold upon fold; to the left a sweep of dark choco- 
late soil, topped — right against the horizon, the wispy gray 
sky — by two brown horses, a man and a plow. 

At last the track ended, quite suddenly, and the riders 
were launched upon the wide, open surface of the hill- 
side, with the man and the plow cutting the shoulder of it 
far below them. Still they pushed on, until at last the 
very top was reached, a Brobdingnagian rib near a mile 
in width stretching as far as the eye could reach, narrow- 
ing in some places, widening in others, trailing its green 
mantle to the very edge of the Tewkesbury plain, with its 
rivers like slips of silver shoe-strings. From here they could 
see Cottingham, almost beautiful with its blue mists and its 
spires, village after village, hamlet after hamlet, madder- 
tinted spinneys, velvet-dark gorse, and, above all, that wide 
sweep of torn gray sky. 

D’Eath drew rein and sat bent forward in his saddle, 
gazing across the plain to where the Malvern Hills, faint 
as a harebell, just pencilled the sky. 

The air was fresh but not cold, very different from the 
day before. No wonder the glass had fallen, there was 
already a soft splutter of rain against his cheek. 

The plowman, the brown horses, had moved away from 


28 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


the edge of the bluff, were almost indistinguishable in 
color from the soil against which they were flattened. 

Each year there came complaints from the man who 
rented the little gray farm on the side of the hill, that the 
heavy rains, flooding down the steep incline, washed the 
seed from out of the ground, and yet he still plowed up 
and down instead of across and across. Cherry had 
spoken to him about it, but he declared it had always been 
done that way in his father’s time, his grandfather’s, his 
great-grandfather. 

D’Eath, glad of a moment’s rest — for in his old way he 
had seemed to have accomplished the greater part of that 
steep climb upon his own nerves and heart — pointed out 
the plodding figure to his youngest daughter, commented 
upon old Yeld’s obstinacy. Would Susie reply, like Mary, 
that she supposed Yeld had some reason for doing as he 
did? 

But no, the corners of Susie’s mobile, rather long- 
lipped mouth twitched. ‘‘ It’s like Henri Fabre’s ‘ Pine 
Processional Caterpillars,’ ” she remarked. 

“ Like ! What in the world ? ” 

“ They’re a sort of caterpillar, a sort that’s always walk- 
ing — like schoolgirls ages ago, in old Mary’s day — long 
lines of them, the tip of the nose of each one just touch- 
ing the tip of the tail of the fellow in front of him. I 
read about it in a book I found the other day — topping, it 
was! Certain insects are just like certain people. Really, 
truly, father, I made out a list of all the people I know, 
an insect for every one. There’s Yeld, for instance, just 
going on and on for all the world like a Pine Processional. 
One day Fabre started a long line of them walking round 
a large flower-pot, and when they encircled it he nipped 
off the rest. Could you believe it? — of course you could, 
you know, we know ” — her glance was full of laughing fel- 
lowship — “heaps of people are just the same — they kept 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


29 


on and on round that flower-pot for seven whole days! 
They got thinner and thinner and more and more ex- 
hausted; they were not going anywhere, they would never 
arrive at anything, but still they went on. There were 
heaps of pine needles close at hand — sort of cake to them 
you know — but they wouldn’t turn aside, wouldn’t ‘ stop.” 
She paused with a little shrug. “ Sounds rotten, doesn’t 
it? But if people weren’t so stupid the world wouldn’t be 
half so funny as it is.” 

She glanced sideways at her father. D’Eath realized 
that she was acting, talking up to him, and yet there was 
that intelligent desire to please, interest, of which no one 
of the others had ever shown the faintest trace. 

Her pony was jumping out of its skin with impatience, 
jerked at the rein; it took both hands to hold him. D’Eath 
watching her, realized the tenseness of arm and wrist, the 
fine strong curve of the straight young back. Her face 
was flushed by the wind; the fine rain, which was really 
little more than a mist, had powdered her golden brown 
hair and short, dark lashes with tiny drops of moist- 
ure. 

“ He’s spoiling for a gallop. Oh 1 I say, let’s race,” she 
cried; shook the reins with a whoop and was off. 

D’Eath followed; scraps of soil, tiny pebbles, scattered 
up into his face from the pony’s flying hoofs as it 
hunched itself to the gallop in that odd way which ponies 
have. The moist air was still, save for the stir made by 
their own passage through it; but from far below them 
came the sound of peewits crying over the bare furrows, 
like a sad, small wind through a keyhole. 

After a while he drew rein, for his heart was beating 
so that it almost suffocated him. But he was conscious 
of a melancholy sort of reluctance to give up this race, 
which had seemed like a challenge to friendship, equality. 
He liked Susie when she was quaintly cynical, but he liked 


30 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


her better when she had cried, “ I say, let’s race,” with 
all her white teeth showing in a friendly grin. 

She realized that he was not following, and came back 
slowly, a little crestfallen. “You didn’t try. And yet I 
had not even said ‘give me a start,’ though Trumpeter — 
well, look at the length of his legs, and look at Ginger’s! 
I wouldn’t have minded being beaten, but just to give up, 
say nothing!” It was plain that she was bitterly dis- 
appointed in him. 

D’Eath felt that he could not bear it, that he must have 
at least this one person — this one member of the family 
which he had so consistently indulged — upon his side, and 
bent his pride to an excuse. “ I’m (not altogether fit 
just now. I don’t think I ought to ride too awfully 
hard.” 

“ But exercise ! Exercise is good for almost everything,” 
answered the girl, still rueful. This time it was D’Eath 
himself who was disappointed. After all she was just 
like the others, he thought. But still he retained sufficient 
spirit to retort, “ Pine Processionalist ! ” and was rewarded 
by seeing Susie’s aggrieved air swept away by a look of 
amused contrition. 

“ My hat ! Doesn’t that just show how one catches 
things? At school if you’re not well you must stay 
indoors and keep warm ; here you must take exercise. I’ve 
been at home three weeks, and this is the result. But — I’m 
awfully sorry, father.” 

They were moving on, side by side now. The mist had 
thickened, walling them in with a not unpleasant privacy. 
“ We’ll have to keep straight along the hilltop until we get 
to Mars Lane, or we’ll be breaking our necks down a 
quarry. I say, mind; more this way.” 

Susie put out her whip hand and just touched her 
father’s; he seemed in a dream, and there was the excuse 
of drawing him a little more to the left. But her expres- 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


31 


sion was almost maternal. She remembered how he had 
looked when she first chanced upon him in the drawing- 
room the evening before; how Mary had spoken of his 
having been up to London to see a doctor, and then how 
everybody seemed to have ignored him. 

“ Father, do tell me. What did that doctor say about 
you ? ” 

Nothing very much.” 

** But he did, I know he did.” Susie spoke with sudden, 
intense conviction. “ I know he did. He said something 
— something — oh, something epoch-making,” 

“ Child, what words you use.” 

Well, he did. That’s what’s altered you so.” 

“How altered me?” 

“ Well, you are altered. You were altered last night, 
that’s what started me.” 

“ Started you what ? ” 

“ Well, making your acquaintance, like a real person, 
not a parent. Something had happened, I knew it had — 
something sort of dithering. You looked, you know, like 
a kid that’s got a secret — or got lost. Yes, that’s it; a 
little bit frightened, and yet awfully excited at having 
found its way outside the park wall; wondering, oh, won- 
dering, tremendously what it will meet with next.” 

“ ’Pon my word, you are an oddity ! ” 

“ Well, so are you. I didn’t realize it before, but that’s 
why we’ve suddenly, quite suddenly, chummed up. Oh, 
it’s my luck, just the very day before I go back to school! 
And after being so lonely all this time I ” 

“ Have you been lonely, Susie ? ” D’Eath in his turn 
put out his hand, laid it upon hers. 

“ Frightfully.” The girl had turned her head aside, but 
the smooth curve of her cheek was crimson. For a moment 
there was silence between them; then she drew her hand 
away and wiped her doeskin glove across her eyes. Some- 


32 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


thing had touched the back of D’Eath’s hand, too large, 
too perfect to have any connection with the drizzling rain. 
He was aghast. “ Susie, Susie, my dear ! ” he exclaimed, 
and then added something incoherent to the effect, If only 
your mother had lived.” 

“ It wouldn’t have made any difference,” murmured the 
girl dismally; then caught up her words again fiercely: 

She wouldn’t have made any difference ; you know she 
wouldn’t. Why, did she ever make any difference to you? ” 

What could he answer? Had she made any difference 
to him? No, rather she had helped to keep him as he was, 
taken the reins, the bit and curb from Caroline, handed 
them on to. her replica, Mary. D’Eath had an idea that 
he ought to say something to the effect that Susie was 
wrong, that there was “ no one like a mother.” But he 
could not bring himself to do it, to put her definitely away 
from him with those platitudes which youth realizes so 
clearly. There was no one like a mother. Yes, that was 
all right; but only if she happened to be not merely a 
good mother, but the sort of mother who understood you. 

“ We’d better go on,” muttered Susie half sulkily, “ or 
we’ll be late for lunch, and then there’ll be a fuss.” 

D’Eath did not reply. He was thinking of his own 
mother, who had existed for him during his early child- 
hood between six and seven each evening, and on Sundays 
when nurse had her afternoon out; those Sundays which 
seemed as though they must be unchangeably connected 
with “ Peep o’ Day,” and rather slippery, silken knees 
which never made quite a lap. As he grew old enough 
for a preparatory school, there had been the holidays, when 
she seemed to notice very little about him save his hands, 
with their dirty nails ; and then, when he went on to Har- 
row, occasional visits, during which it had been dreadfully, 
ever-increasingly diffijcult to know what to talk about. 

Later on had come that trip abroad. Hugh D’Eath’s 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


33 


parents had spent their honeymoon at Bath. Always they 
had said, ‘‘ With Scotland and Wales, and the dear Lakes, 
there is so much to be seen in our own country.” But 
suddenly a specialist — and that came of consulting strange 
doctors who know nothing of your habits, your constitu- 
tion — had recommended a winter abroad for Mrs. D’Eath’s 
bronchitis, had packed her and her husband off to the 
South of France, almost before they knew what they were 
doing. There they had lost their lives in a railway acci- 
dent, when Hugh was but just nineteen years of age. And 
that was what came of foreign travel ! Though, of course, 
there were railway accidents in England, but not so bad; 
and at least one was among one’s own people, not among 
foreigners. 

Father and daughter cut down Mars Lane, ’twixt high 
hedges still red with hip and haw, then out on to the main 
Cottingham Road, and so home. Once Susie remarked: 

‘‘ It is not really how much one’s related outwardly ; 
it’s what you feel inside that counts. If you can only 
just see that some one’s thinking like you, amused by the 
same sort of things.” 

The words were platitudinous enough, like most of the 
wise words of youth ; but the disconnected fashion in which 
they were uttered pleased D’Eath. It showed how entirely 
Susie was growing to be at her ease with him, how their 
thoughts ran in the same direction. After a while she 
again inquired what the doctor had said to him, and 
he found himself telling her, quite simply and frankly. 
There was something wrong with his heart. Sir Humphrey 
took a serious view of it, a ridiculously serious view, 

for after all, if the worst did come to the worst 

He hesitated, but Susie tracked his thought to its end: 

*'You mean that life’s no great shakes anyway?” 

“ Oh, I don’t know. I suppose I have everything a man 
can want. But death is a sort of adventure ; the only one, 


34 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


it seems, that’s left to me; the only one which I am likely 
to have — well, unchaperoned.” 

He had hesitated at the word “ death,” a little fearful 
of what effect it might have upon the girl. For people 
shirk it ; there is no doubt about that. “ If the worst 
should happen,” they will say; or, “ If I shouldn’t get bet- 
ter.” Even the half-profane expressions, such as If I 
pan out,” “ if I kick the bucket,” “ pop off,” seem to have 
something bigger, more universal, than themselves at their 
cot, the fear of “ the word.” 

But quite young people are less easily appalled at the 
idea of death than their elders. Susie’s face was full of 
tenderness and grave concern, but it showed no fear. 

“ It’s pretty bad, pretty awful, to feel that one would 
be glad to be out of it. But, then, we all do that at times. 
I know I do.” 

D’Eath glanced up half startled, half amused. This chit 
of seventeen with her radiant youth ! He was on the edge 
of a laugh — the sting of which might have rankled in the 
girl’s mind for years — when he pulled himself up sharply, 
remembering how he had seriously contemplated suicide at 
much the same age, because a beloved mongrel pup — a 
long-legged, yellow, flea-infested creature of quite indeter- 
minate breed — had been condemned to death for poaching. 

“ I don’t think, yet awhile at least, that we need tell 
the others — Mary — what that man said,” he remarked 
after a pause, rather anxiously. He could not have said 
why he had spoken as he had done to Susie; was dis- 
tressed and shy as a lover at the very thought of having 
this new element in his life, this prospect of something 
fugitive and yet liberating, discussed, fingered over. 

“ Mary ! ” answered Susie with scorn. “ My dear ! she 
would expect you into dying. She would order her mourn- 
ing at the sales — and then what could you do? I don’t 
believe, oh, not for a moment, that it’s true. The old 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


35 


fellow might be right, only, you see, he could never realize 
that he was making life so much more interesting for* 
you; you simply had to go on living. Mary would write 
the whole thing down ahead in her diary, if he said six 
months or a year. Oh, I know that’s how she does it. Tell 
Mary ? Good Lord, no ! ” 


CHAPTER IV 


Sir Humphrey had insisted that D’Eath must come and 
see him again within a month, ** That is unless you have 
already started for Germany, which is, of course, what I 
should like you to do,” he had added. ‘‘ Though in any 
case you would see me first. I would write to a man I 
know. There would be certain matters to arrange.” 

All the time that he was speaking the specialist had 
been troubled by the unfamiliar feeling that he could not 
be quite sure whether or no he was making any special 
impression upon his patient. Usually it was all the other 
way; people broke down, were perplexed, excited, or else 
keyed up to a white-faced, tight-lipped endurance. But this' 
man, with his delicate clear-cut face, dreamy blue eyes, 
odd, whimsical mouth, seemed, one might almost say,j 
pleasantly intrigued by the idea of death. Or, perhaps, 
after all, it was merely that he did not believe what the 
great man told him. It might have been this irritating 
doubt which had driven Sir Humphrey at the very last — 
snatching back the ‘‘ while there's life there's hope ” con- 
solation with one hand, as it were — ^to say, “ Of course, I 
may be wrong; but personally — well, as you ask me to be 
frank, a year in England, possibly two or three if you 
decide to go to Nauheim, do exactly as I tell you, take no 
risks.” 

D'Eath had taken no risks. But he had not gone to 
Germany. The very thought of it bored him beyond words. 
If it had been Italy now, that would have been a different 
affair altogether. Though would it? With Mary and her 
Baedeker, and Vera longing for the dogs, and Irene in the 
long vacation — Irene with her contempt for everything old. 

36 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


37 


Bit by bit that curious sense of not unpleasant excite- 
ment roused in him by his visit to the specialist died away. 
He did not believe, not for a moment, that anything was 
going to happen. Unless it were possible for a man to 
die of fatigue. 

And how tired he was, how everlasting tired; more 
tired when he got up in the morning than when he went 
to bed at night; faint with fatigue sitting on the Bench, 
at the Board of Guardians, at the agricultural show, the 
puppy show, the Cottingham races, where it seemed that 
all the country people stuck out their chins, wore their hats 
with a tilt — even Horace, who attended the races but did 
not bet — in an endeavor to look particularly keen and 
rakish. 

George’s wife was staying at Dene Royal awaiting her 
confinement, bitterly resentful. “ Such an expense,” she 
declared. And when we both hate children ! If it had 
been puppies, now.” Mary fluttered round her continually ; 
poor Mary, glowing with hope, and a sort of excitement 
over an affair which had nothing whatever to do with her. 
D’Eath, catching sight of the expression on his eldest 
daughter’s face one afternoon, as she unpacked a box of 
tiny, almost incredibly fine garments which had arrived for 
Peggy by post three days ago, and which she had been too 
indifferent even to open, felt more drawn to her than he 
had ever been. So Mary was not altogether so well satis- 
fied as she appeared. He remembered when she first came 
out how particular she had been, how she looked down 
upon the odd men who came to Cottingham for the balls. 
“ Not quite our sort,” she would say in her level, mulish 
way. Well, she had not even picked up a crooked stick, 
as yet, anyhow, and she was becoming more and more set 
every day ; she was not by any means plain, but there was 
a sort of baldness about her face, a want of expression and 
understanding, which put men off. Then she could see 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


38 

nothing but the obvious. Now, when her father went up 
to her, laid one hand upon her shoulder, she inquired if he 
wanted anything, not satirically or impatiently, but with an 
obvious insensitiveness to the human touch. 

Vera was really engaged to that young Helstone, who 
had helped her with the decorations for the dance — a very 
good match, so everybody said. Hugh used to watch them, 
and wonder and wonder. Somehow or other they made 
him feel very small, very childish. He expected them to 
be in love as he understood love — something shy and 
wonderful, full of wonder and a half-fearful joy. He 
had been afraid of everything when he himself was 
engaged, distrustful beyond words of his own unworthiness, 
and yet wrapped in a magical rose-colored veil, through 
which he could see nothing quite plainly. 

It had not lasted ; it had all been a dream, with only one 
dreamer. But still he had dreamed. In Vera’s engagement 
he had half hoped to live that too short moment over 
again, even if it was only vicariously. Perhaps it was true 
what Irene said : “ The older people are regular vampires, 
battening on the young.” But, no, his third daughter and 
young Helstone showed their affection for each other — 
what they had to spare from the dogs and horses, which 
they both adored, upon which they lavished words, caresses, 
never even thought of in connection with one another — 
merely by a display of rudeness, a fire of chaff and per- 
sonalities. In another stratum of society they would have 
exchanged hats, slapped each other in an exuberance of 
high spirits. Tony Helstone declared that he had only 
asked Vera to marry him out of pity, to which Vera coun- 
terfeited with the obvious retort that no one else would 
have him. 

And yet out of doors the sap was stirring in the trees, 
quivering to life in tight, transulcent buds of jade and 
ruby, birds were mating, wilder with joy than they could 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


39 

ever be with fear ; the windflowers, those wonder children 
of aged winter, were out in the woods; everything in 
Nature was as adorably young, as fresh, as ardent as 
though it were the very day after Creation. 

Susie did not come home for the Easter holidays. She 
had wanted to go to some school friend in Yorkshire just 
for a week, and then come back to Dene Royal. It not 
until her father, who had counted the days, asked what 
train she was expected by that Mary told him she was not 
coming at all. “ Mrs. Erskine wrote saying how they liked 
having her, how she seemed to be enjoying herself ; so I 
thought that she had much better stay on, as they asked her. 
I really have no time to see to her — with Peggy and all. 
Then it’s such a journey, and only three weeks’ holi- 
day.” 

D’Eath was appalled. “ But d-did she want to stay ? ” 

Mary glanced up at her father in surprise ; he had spoken 
so hotly, with that slight stutter which came to him in 
moments of excessive emotion, looked so flushed and odd. 
Certainly people did get difficult to deal with as they grew 
older. 

“ She was wild to go. It seemed much better that she 
should stay. It does not do to get into the way of con- 
sulting girls of that age; they’re too fond of chopping and 
changing.” 

“Well, you had no business to settle a thing like that 
without consulting me — ^no business whatever! To banish 
Susie in that fashion ! ” 

“‘Banish,’ father!” 

“ Yes, banish.” 

Mary’s eyes dropped to the sewing, which she had taken 
from her little basket — the basket which had been her 
mother’s, lined with crimson quilted satin. D’Eath was 
furious, could have shaken her; all the more furious from 
the realization that she regarded all anger as something 


40 


WHILE THERE^S LIFE 


almost indecent. She had a small square of white linen 
in her hand, was drawing out the threads, replacing them 
with others at an infinite sacrifice of time and eye- 
sight. 

“ I always imagined that you liked me to manage in the 
way I thought best,” she remarked quietly. 

“ As you think best, of course, in the house and all that ! 
But in a case like this! Good heavens! Am I never to 
see anything of Susie?” 

“ I don^t know that I ever thought of it like that ; you 
never seemed to take any great interest in her until just the 
end of the Christmas holidays. I know when I begged and 
entreated you to help me settle about her school — why, even 
her confirmation — I couldn’t get you to say anything. I am 
sure I have no desire to take any responsibility upon 
myself; it’s a thing I’ve no taste for. But when poor 
mother died, and there was a question of Aunt Caroline 
and Aunt Gertie giving up their flat, living here altogether, 
you didn’t seem to wish it. Though, of course, it would 
have made it much easier for me.” 

‘^Of course I did not wish it — anything — anything but 
that. I had been ‘managed,’ brought up practically, by 
Caroline. At least, I thought I would spare you that.” 

“ I am sure you thought you were doing what was for 
the best ; and if — things— oh, well, we need not speak about 
that. But now, when I have given up everything, devoted 

myself as I have done Dear father, really it does seem 

a little hard; to feel that you resent ’’--Mary hesitated, 
then again added — “ things.” It was a word she was fond 
of; put to many uses in her rather limited vocabulary — 
“ my things,” or “ marriage and death and things like that ” 
or “things that aren’t quite nice,” “things that no one 
does,” “things that no one talks about.” When as a girl 
of Susie’s age she had been taken to see Dore’s pictures, 
she described them as being all “heaven and hell and 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


41 


things/’ In his inmost consciousness D’Eath realized that 
she had given up nothing, that the greatest of all “ things ” 
had simply passed her by; and his anger having cooled 
down to a flat sense of disappointment and loss, inter- 
mingled with pity for Mary, he was repentant, apologetic: 

No, no, my dear, not that. Do you think I don’t realize 
that there never was such a daughter — such a manager? 
And in everything it’s the same; Horace is always saying 
he simply doesn’t know what he would do without you in 
the village. I’d no business to speak as I did; but, well, 
frankly, I was disappointed at the thought of not seeing 
Susie all this holiday.” 

In a moment Mary had darted back; so long as he was 
angry she had submitted, with nothing more than a meek 
complaint, but her next remark was like a peck. 

“ You began to take notice of Susie last holidays, and it 
didn’t improve her. I’m sure we all noticed it ” — Mary 
seldom made an assertion altogether on her own behalf, 
formed herself and her family into a sort of phalanx — 

it doesn’t do with a girl of that age. She was quite out 
of hand, and after all, as I’m the one who has to manage 
her ” 

She bit off her sentence, as she had a habit of doing 
when she was put out; a less well-bred woman might have 
bitten her thread sharply, with a grimace. So that was it, 
thought D’Eath. He was not considered good for ” Susie 
— or was it that Susie was not good for him? Mary was 
an exemplary woman, but it sometimes seemed as though 
all her sex had run to petty tyrannies, jealousies. 

“You won’t forget that Lord and Lady Egginton are 
coming to dinner to-night, will you, father? And Uncle 
Horace wanted to see you about the new hassocks,” she 
added, after a moment’s pause, which D’Eath took to mean 
that he was pardoned, that nothing more would be said 
on the subject of Susie and her holidays. 


42 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


And yet, if he had insisted, there was still time for her 
to be recalled. But would she wish it ? Was she not hap- 
pier where she was? Mrs. Erskine was a jolly soul; there 
were plenty of boys and girls about the house. 

And after all he was an old fogey. 


CHAPTER V 


Six weeks later D’Eath was in London again. He had 
meant to go and see Sir Humphrey; but he went down to 
Sunningdale first, paid Susie a surprise visit, and after that 
was too greatly depressed to care very greatly what hap- 
pened to him. 

For that dreadful paralysis, which had overcome him on 
similar occasions, when his own mother had visited him at 
school, seemed to have infected them both, as though it 
were a sort of microbe forever present in those chill 
drawing-rooms where parents are received. Susie and he 
had nothing to say to each other. When he suggested tak- 
ing her out to lunch she proposed that he should take her 
friend, Rosie somebody, as well. “ The Erskine girl — no, 
thank you ! I stayed with the Erskines for three weeks at 
Easter I ” That was what she had said. Meanwhile it 
seemed that she held Rosie, the school-games and prizes, 
the inanities of the mistresses, up as a sort of shield between 
her father and herself. She was very polite, interested in 
everything he had to say; but that was all. After lunch 
they went for a walk, but it was Rosie, a pasty-faced, eager- 
to-please girl, who did most of the talking. There were two 
trains back to town — one at three fifteen and one at five. 
When D’Eath declared that he must catch the three fifteen 
there was a distinct sense of relief evident, though it was 
Rosie who said : “ Oh, then you will be able to play cricket 
this afternoon, Susie, after all. That^s topping ! 

D’Eath did not believe that Susie was awfully keen about 
cricket, that this had anything to do with it. But it was 
only at the station, during the very last moments — with his 
train actually in sight, with Rosie engaged in choosing 

43 


44 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


papers, spending half a crown for him at the bookstall 
— that he gathered some insight into the true state of 
affairs. 

“ How’s Ginger ? ” inquired Susie nonchalantly, looking 
the other way, down the line at the train. 

“ Very fat, but dullish, I fancy. I took him a carrot the 
other day, and he’d hardly look at it. He wants you back, 
as we all want you.” 

** And yet you made me stay at those beastly Erskines’ 
all the holidays.” 

Mad^you?” 

“ Well, you ‘ thought it best ’ — at least, that’s what Mary 
said, and as you didn’t write — I suppose if I had begged 
and prayed, but catch me doing that ! ” Susie spoke sulkily ; 
but she spoke like herself, unlike the admirable automaton 
of the last two hours. 

‘‘ My dear, I said nothing. I was longing for you to 
come, bitterly disappointed.” 

“ And yet you said nothing. Well, if I wanted anything 

very, very much ” She pulled herself together with a 

jerk, remembering her own words as to begging and pray- 
ing, “ catch me.” And yet her father was different, of 
course he could do as he liked. No, it seemed as though 
they were at an impasse. There was nothing more to be 
said; she had lost confidence in him. The train w'as in, 
and Rosie was pressing sporting and picture papers upon 
him, the sort of papers she liked. 

“ Thanks awfully,” said Susie. “ It was most awfully 
good of you to come down.” Her face was very red, her 
lips pressed tightly together, a flat, unyielding surface as 
D’Eath kissed them. The platform was crowded; third- 
class passengers were pushing their way into the carriage. 

“ Susie, don’t you believe me? ” cried D’Eath, just as the 
train was moving off, and saw that Susie turned, that her 
eyes were swimming in tears, that she was biting in her 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


45 


tinder-lip. Then her face was shut away from him, there 
was a momentary glimpse of her bright, emerald-green 
tam-o-shanter above the drab, indistinguishable heads of 
the crowd, but in a breath that also was lost to sight. 

“ I think he’s the most perfect dear ! And so awfully 
distinguished looking! ” cried Rosie, clinging to her friend’s 
arm as they moved out of the station together. ‘‘ I say, do 
you know what he did? Gave me a sov, for chocolates, he 

said. Frightfully decent of him, wasn’t it? Did he ? 

But of course.” 

“ Yes.” Susie spun her sovereign in the air to show how 
little she cared for it; then, in an agony of apprehension, 
saw it drop to the ground, roll towards a grating. Not 
that she would have minded, everything was altogether too 
rotten to bother about money, but she needed some photo- 
graphic plates, owed that Staverley girl eighteen pence for 
potted meat — frightfully dear, and all moldy on top. 

As the two girls straightened themselves after a pro- 
longed but effectual grovel in the mud, where the sovereign 
had completely buried itself, Rosie remarked : “ Look here, 
do you know what I think? Miss Birrell’s most awfully 
gone on him; she was as pink as anything when she came 
to call you, and her nose all twitching like a rabbit’s. It 
must be perfectly frightful to be a schoolmistress, never to 
see any men except the masters, who don’t count. Now I 
think men ” 

“ Oh, men I ” ejaculated Susie scornfully, rubbing her 
sovereign with her handkerchief. 

“Well, of course, only certain sort of men,” amended 
Rosie disconnectedly, glancing sideways at her companion, 
for it was always Susie who was the leading spirit. — “ One 
might imagine that you had some reason to think yourself 
cleverer, more distinguished than any of the other girls,” 
that’s what Miss Birrell had said, instructing her on the 
ornament of a meek and contrite spirit ; and — “ Well, some- 


WHILE THERE^S LIFE 


46 

body’s got to think it ! ” had been the retort ; ** what a mud- 
dle it would make if every kid in the school gave in to 
every other.” — ‘‘ Men like your father,” went on Rosie, 
meandering, as Susie called it ; ‘‘ do you know who he made 
me think of ? ” 

“ Who?” 

“ Liszt.” 

“ Liszt ! ” repeated Susie, with a short laugh. She was 
feeling very flat and depressed, distrustful of herself and 
the world in general, was glad of the chance of being nasty 
to some one, even her faithful vassal Rosie. “ Well, I 
never! Good Lord, after taking that sovereign, and lunch 
and all, and ginger-beer at Shepherd’s ! ” 

“Why, whatever have I said? What’s wrong?” 

“ Well, the sort of person he was ! Have you ever read 
a life of Liszt? Huh! ” For a moment or so Susie moved 
on in silence, taking no notice of her companion’s confused 
apologies. Then her sense of humor triumphed, and she 
broke into a laugh. 

“ Poor old father ! As if he My word, I bet he 

often wishes he had! Olga Janina — Marguerite Gautier — 
Lola Montez — George Sand — and poor old father with 
Mary! Oh, my hat!” 


CHAPTER VI 


It was the last week in June when D’Eath again visited 
London, and called to consult Sir Humphrey. It had been 
an unusually hot and early summer; even at Dene Royal 
the nights had seemed stifling. The fatigue which over- 
hung him instead of growing less, as he had half expected 
it would, with the coming of the warm weather — for his 
sister Caroline had mesmerised him into the belief that 
all his ills were the result of rheumatic tendencies — ^became 
more and more pronounced, so that he was at last driven 
to feel that something must be done, that he could no 
longer go on as he was doing. 

The great physician was haughty and distant. It was 
almost as though he said: “If you like to go on living in 
this miserable condition instead of doing the really 
firm thing, dying or getting well, I wash my hands of 
you.” 

But still he very greatly impressed Mary, who had 
insisted upon accompanying her father. Once again Nau- 
heim was declared to be “ the thing ” — ^the only thing, and 
Mary promised that she would use her influence. That 
meant the influence, the entire weight of the family 
against him. D’Eath realized this, and it did little to cheer 
him. 

They returned to Dene Royal that same evening because 
of Peggy — “ Well, it might be any day now ” — George was 
already there, in waiting, and the nurse. “Just like our 
luck ! ” that was Peggy's constant cry. It was as though 
she imagined her condition to be the least expected outcome 
of matrimony. 

It was almost unbearably hot in the train. Sitting in 
47 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


48 

his corner staring out of the window, D’Eath’s thoughts 
ran like an aimless toy-mouse, round and round with the 
lines : 

“ I wish I were dead now, 

Or down in my bed now. 

To cover my head now. 

And have a good cry.” 

For the life of him he could not have said where he had 
heard them or read them; if they were somebody else’s, 
or the outcome of his own imagination. 

The whole carriage was filled with the sickening odor 
of brandy ; for Mary, quietly watchful now that he was, so 
to speak, certified, realizing his weakness, had unscrewed 
the top of the flask, so as to have it ready. 

Several times she asked him if he would not put up his 
feet, and when he answered in the negative, none too 
patiently, thought how difficult men were; felt glad to 
reflect that she had always been sensible enough to decide 
against marriage. 

At the station, waiting for his luggage, Barnett touched 
his hat. Bad news, isn’t it, sir ? ” 

‘‘What news?” 

“ Oh dear, I beg your pardon, sir, I made certain you’d 
have heard. They won’t have Mr. James. I’m sure I 
don’t know what things are coming to. Socialism or such 
like, I call it.” 

“ Mr. James ” was the eldest son of their late member, 
who had died a few months earlier. The greater part of 
Mr. James’s life had been spent in Java; Gloucestershire 
knew him not, though Barnett remembered him as a little 
boy. He was just returning to settle at home when his 
father died. Really the whole thing seemed providential: 
if old Staunton had to die — and he was close on eighty — ^ 
there was his son all ready to step into his shoes. Nothing 


WHILE THERE^S LIFE 


49 

could be better. Besides, they had thought a great deal, 
really a very great deal, of James Staunton — in Java. 

But now the committee had refused even to nominate 
him; had chosen a nobody. For a Conservative con- 
stituency, too, where people really did expect to get some- 
body who was somebody. 

No wonder Barnett was disturbed. It was likely 
enough that the seat might pass over to the Liberals, 
and the Liberals were near to Socialism, or so it 
seemed to Barnett. If once Socialism got the upper 
hand in England what would become of him and his 
horses ? 

At tea on the lawn they were all full of the same thing. 
“ Old Staunton would rise in his grave if he could hear of 
it,” declared George. 

Only Peggy was unconcerned. ‘‘As if the silly elections, 
as if anything, mattered to me.” 

The Reverend Horace D^ath was there, the man who 
ought to have been the country squire, leaning back in his 
chair, his fingers just touching each other, his fine florid 
face showing grave concern. “ IFs the whole trend of 
things — Church, State, once so indissolubly knitted. But 

now Ton my soul, I don’t know what we’re coming 

to. All this talk about new divorce laws, for instance ; the 
thin end of the wedge. Once the home life of the country 
is undermined, tampered with, there is no knowing what 
will happen. Look at France now! Without religion, 
without morality, any real national unity is impossible; 
and that’s what the Socialist element in this country would 
bring us to. Lamentable! It’s even, in its own insidious 
way, invading the Church. The Church! That new ap- 
pointment the bishop has sanctioned at Kiddlestone, for 
instance — eh, Hugh? Did you hear about that? A man 
from one of those new theological colleges, a man who 
nobody knows anything about, and one of the best livings 


50 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


in the county; all nice people, practically no poor, no 
chapel. The son of a shopkeeper, would you believe it? — 
actually the son of a shopkeeper! And that fine church 
and rectory — splendid stabling. One had expected some- 
one of one’s own sort, anyhow, at Kiddlestone. There was 
my old friend Belford, a Balliol man — well, well, it will 
be a terrible miss for us; there was always something 
going on at the rectory for the young people in old 
Harris’s time — tennis parties and suchlike. It’s all so 
much dead loss to the county. A shopkeeper’s son! ’Pon 
my soul, I do wonder what things are coming to ! ” 

A cabinetmaker’s son, so Norah Helstone told me,” 
put in Mary. 

“ Not a carpenter’s son, by any chance ? ” It was Hugh 
D’Eath who spoke in a detached voice, rolling over one of 
the terriers with his foot, his head bent. 

“ Oh, no, not quite so bad as that. A cabinetmaker, 
quite in a large way, I believe,” answered Mary hastily. 
“ But still, what is one to do? There are so many things 
to consider. One can’t call, and Norah says he’s married. 
It will make things so dreadfully awkward.” 

“Tut, tut!” said D’Eath. “Married! That’s bad! 
The carpenter’s son I was thinking of had no wife to com- 
plicate matters.” 

There was a moment’s pause. Something in his tone 
more than his words puzzled them. Then the rector 
laughed. “ Well, I suppose, whatever he is, we've got to 
swallow him — we ‘ fellow-toilers in vineyards,’ an’ all that. 
But you ladies must please yourselves.” 

“Of course one does not want to be un-Christian or 
anything,” demurred Mary, with knitted brows. 

“ My dear, as if you could ever be that,” broke in her 
uncle. Then he drew out his watch and glanced at it. 
“ Dear, dear, I must go. I had planned to write my ser- 
mon to-nignt — anyhow, start it. Frances ordered dinner 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


51 


at seven on purpose. The Kiddingtons are dining with us 
to-morrow, so there will be no time for anything, and I 
think Frances has asked the James Stauntons. I suppose 
you haven’t got a bottle of the eighteen-twenty port to 
spare — eh, Hugh? I’ve only just got some fresh stuff in, 
not properly settled. Good enough for a younger son — but 
Kiddington! You know what Kiddington is about port — 
a wonderful judge! There’s a clear case of heredity for 
you; his father was just the same, his grandfather, too, 
from all I hear. Heredity and tradition — that’s what all 
these wretched Socialists want to do away with, I sup- 
pose.” 

Of course you can have the port. George, will you 
see about it? The keys are somewhere on my writing- 
table.” 

“ Thanks, Hugh, thanks. One can always depend upon 
you in an emergency, I know that. But you’re looking a 
bit hipped, tired. Nothing wrong, eh?” 

“ No — no, nothing wrong, thanks.” 

That’s all right. I was thinking, Mary ” — the rector 
who had half turned to follow George, bent towards his 
eldest and favorite niece — of taking ‘ Man shall not live 
by bread alone ’ for my text next Sunday morning. It 
seems to me that the time’s ripe for a little severity, 
chastening. Too much pleasure, self-indulgence, eh?” 

Yes, yes, excellent.” Mary rose and slipped her arm 
through that of her uncle. “ I think I will walk to the 
house with you. I wanted to ask you, tell you ” 

They moved across the lawn together, Mary talking. 
Horace courteously bent towards her, listening. Half-way 
to the house Hugh D’Eath saw his brother turn his head, 
glance back. So Mary was telling him what Sir Humphrey 
had said! 

“ Hugh, dear, would you push that footstool a little 
nearer? It seems to be growing a trifle damp.” 


52 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


Caroline D’Eath — once more at Dene Royal, since her 
cook had been selfish and ill-considered enough to leave 
her for a husband — took up her knitting and gave her 
brother an encouraging little nod: “ Now, tell me, did you 
and Mary meet any one in London ? ” 


CHAPTER VII 


By dinner-time that night it was plain that Mary had 
“ broken the news ’’ to the entire family. Her own eyes 
were red, no one was quite natural. Suddenly it seemed 
as though D’Eath were a stranger with whom they had to 
think before they spoke. Leslie and Dolly were there from 
the Rectory, strapping, bouncing girls, always “too fright- 
fully busy ” ; usually taking but little notice of their uncle ; 
brushing him aside, with all uncomprehended things, as 
** queer.” But on this particular evening they could not 
take their rather prominent, light blue eyes away from 
him. Dolly kicked him a footstool under the table, Leslie 
watched him, anticipated his every need; passed him the 
salt, almost as though she were serving at some sacred 
ceremony. Each time Tony Helstone launched out upon 
one of his guffaws he broke off sharply. They all made 
conversation; cheerful but not gay. 

Harold came over for coffee, and Vera, hearing his step 
in the hall, ran to meet him. There was a great deal of 
whispering. When he entered the dining-room he took 
D’Eath’s hand : “ My dear father,” he said ; “ my very dear 
father ! ” Then, “ Ah, well, if ever I can do anything. 
You know what we’re for?” He sighed and smiled, con- 
sciously hampered by that feeling against ** talking shop ” 
so characteristic of the English Church. 

“ It’s a mercy Charles is coming down to-morrow,” de- 
clared Caroline with a heavy sigh. “ He and George will 
be able to settle everything; take so much off poor dear 
Hugh’s shoulders.” 

It was as Susie had said, thought D’Eath bitterly; they 
would expect him into dying; they had already started it. 

53 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


54 

He went to bed early, because Mary reminded him of what 
Sir Humphrey had said on the subject of sleep ; also because 
he felt he really could not face Horace, who was coming 
round to fetch his girls home, and bring the list of Sunday 
hymns for Gertie, who played the organ when she was at 
‘'the dear old home.” 

Still, there was balm in Gilead, for he lay in peace, 
reading Samuel Butler, until long after the last of the family 
had elaborately tip-toed past his room on the way to bed; 
then rose and sat by his open window, listening to the faint 
complaining twitter of birds, rendered uneasy by the long 
twilight, settling themselves to their short sleep amid the 
trees beneath the window ; - gazed out upon the lake of 
mist in the valley, the rounded sweep of the hills against 
the clear moonlit sky, of that blue which is seen nowhere 
else save in old Japanese color prints. 

The world was so good and sweet and large. And yet, 
good Lord, what cages people made for themselves ! / 

He returned to bed, and picking up one after another of 
the books which filled the shelf at his side, read on and on ; 
here a bit and there a bit. “ Browsing,” as he called it ; 
a proceeding which his family looked upon with the deepest 
disapproval. Once having begun a book, Caroline would 
read it through to the very end, no matter how trashy or 
dull it might prove to be. " As I’ve begun it, I must finish 
it.” That was what she said firmly, always remem- 
bering the exact number of pages to which she had at- 
tained. 

Gertie confessed to skimming ; but even she did not dart 
from one book to another; though it might have been 
allowed to her, for she was literary, and literary people 
were expected to be odd: had written several little tales, 
not yet published : thought of starting a novel, but was held 
up for the want of a plot. 

D’Eath never forgot the scandal it occasioned when they 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


55 

found him reading the Book of Job in the garden one morn- 
ing, after breakfast, too. 

True, Caroline read ‘‘her chapter” after breakfast, but 
she decorously went to her own room to do so. 

“ Father ! Well, I’m blessed ! ” It was Vera who dis- 
covered him, who instantly gave tongue, attracting attention 
to his vagaries. “ Reading the Bible, in the garden, in the 
middle of the morning! If that doesn’t beat everything!” 
Mary had moved towards them with her little jar of salt 
and water, her gardening gloves — she had been picking 
slugs off the young chrysanthemums — and joined in with 
the remark that on her way to bed, only the night before, 
going into the study to ask her father to be sure and put 
out the lamp, she had noticed that he was deep in a French 
novel — so deep that he did not seem even to notice her. 
“ The Revolt of something, by a Frenchman named France; 
I know I noticed it particularly, because it seemed so odd 
for a Frenchman to be called France.” 

On this particular night D’Eath browsed until after 
one o’clock and slept late; was awakened by hearing James, 
who valeted him, moving about the room with unwonted 
softness. 

A fragrant smell of coffee and fried sole permeated the 

air. “ What in the world ” he began ; upon which 

James looped back the last curtain, and moved over to 
his master’s side. “ Miss Mary thought, as you weren’t 
very well, with the journey and all, it would be best for you 
to have your breakfast in bed this morning, sir.” With his 
large red hands, anxious and conscientious, the man ar- 
ranged the articles on the tray, so D’Eath might help him- 
self the more easily. “ I hope, sir, that I’ve not forgotten 
anything.” There was a discreet knock at the door, and he 
moved to open it; came back with a little glass jar of mar- 
malade upon a silver tray. 

“ One of the housemaids with the marmalade, sir. Miss 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


56 

Mary noticed that it had not gone up. I don’t know how 
I came to forget it ; I am sure I hope that you’ll excuse me, 
sir.” 

He moved humbly towards the door, and then half 
turned. I do trust, sir, that you will feel a little better 
to-day.” 

So it had begun ; he was already cast for the imprisoned 
role of an invalid doddering to the grave. 

There was James — James ! — whom he had overheard only 
the day before bragging to one of the grooms, cleaning a 
bit against the stable door. 

“ Cleared thirty bob I did over the sweepstake as we had 
in the hall ; took that new little housemaid — what do you call 
her? — Violet, into Cottingham, high tea and something with 
it. Lord, what a time we had ! ” The groom had muttered 
some reply amidst his hissing, then James had laughed. 
“Shy? Not she! Catch ’em an’ kiss ’em an’ they’ll eat 
out o’ the hand, from the highest to the lowest. That’s 
what I says, an’ I’ve proved it, too. My word, there’s 
things I could tell you, an* not only about our class neither ! ” 

That was the real James: as different as anything could 
well be from the stuffed dummy who hung his great 
shoulders over his master’s breakfast tray. Was he to go 
on all his life — ^the fraction of life which still remained to 
him — wrapped in cotton-wool, ministered to by these mealy- 
mouthed sycophants? 

He was flinging his bedclothes aside preparatory to get- 
ting up, thinking of a cold bath, when Mary knocked at the 
door, entered with a little glass in her hand. “ Your drops, 
father. I thought that I had better see to them' myself. 
You know, darling, you really are so naughty about taking 
your medicine,” 

The days which followed were amongst the most miser- 
able that Hugh D’Eath ever remembered. It was certain 
that he must go to Nauheim; Cook had been written to. 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


57 


And yet it was difficult to completely settle anything. It 
seemed impossible for Mary to accompany him, because 
there was Peggy to be considered. If Peggy were laid up at 
Dene Royal, and Mary were not at hand to keep order, 
there would be sure to be difficulties with the servants; 
there always was with a nurse in the house. Vera did not 
want to go because of young Helstone and her trousseau — 
well, there, Mary was needed to help with that also. Caro- 
line had never been abroad, even to Paris. And Gertie 
could not go without Fenton, and Fenton was frightened of 
the sea. 

There was a suggestion of Dolly and Leslie, but then 
some one would have to go to look after them. ‘‘What 
with German officers and all, and Hugh never seeing any- 
thing going on under his very nose.” Of course there was 
Cousin Edith, but Edith would not go anywhere without 
her dog; and Isabel Ingram, who was always ready to go 
anywhere so long as her expenses were paid, was laid up 
with shingles. 

The subject was discussed in all its aspects. Of course 
there was the possibility of a hired trained nurse, but here 
D’Eath himself put down his foot. 

“If only you had any suggestion to make yourself, dear 
father,” said Mary at last in despair, though she would not 
listen to her father’s reiterated assurance that he was quite 
well enough to go alone. 

“ One does not know what might happen,” that was what 
Mary said. 

No, one did not know what might happen, they all felt 
that. To all this worry and discussion over the question as 
to who should accompany him to Nauheim — which made 
D’Eath feel ashamed of his very existence — was added the 
graver question of “ affairs.” 

George was leaving the diplomatic service because he 
could no longer afford it. It seemed to D’Eath that there 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


58 

never could be any family who spent more money and got 
less fun out of it. George had thought of taking a little 
place and breeding hunters. But then what was the good 
of doing that, putting money into a house when no one 
knew what might happen? When they said this sort of 
thing it seemed to Hugh D’Eath as though his family had 
got their own toes in between his heel and his shoe, were 
gradually working it off. 

Old Colonel Helstone came over to discuss settlements. 
‘‘Of course for the present it’s all right; you’ve been 
very generous, D’Eath, munificently generous. But there’s 
the future to think of, and these new death duties are 
the very devil ; we all realize that, even the strongest of us.” 

It seemed to D’Eath — from all that was intimated, the 
logical outcome of what was said — that he put his family 
in an equally difficult position whether he lived or died. 
Irene wrote to him quite frankly : “You mustn’t think me 
heartless, but I do hope that I shall be absolutely inde- 
pendent, free to live my own life ; no guardians, or any of 
that nonsense, no depending upon George, who, as you 
know, I never could stand ” 

Roger Colburn came over from Thorns. He was one 
of his late sister’s executors, and had no opinion at all of 
his brother-in-law. “ A decent fellow, but a regular mud- 
dler ; knows nothing whatever about business. 

“ There’s that chap Cherry, to whom your father trusts 
everything. I don’t believe half the tenants are paying any- 
thing like a proper rent,” he said to George, walking up 
and down the terrace smoking after luncheon, thinking what 
a mercy it was that George had his head screwed on the 
right way. One of old Colburn’s legs was a little shorter 
than the other, and this inclined him to veer to the left, a 
tendency which he counteracted by a sudden swing of the 
other leg at every three or four steps. D’Eath, sitting by 
the open window of the study, could hear his voice going on 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


59 


and on — a dogmatic, boring voice. Mrs. Colburn was in the 
drawing-room with Mary, and he knew that they were all 
talking about him. 

George went up to London, stayed the night. Charles, 
who had been home once and rejoined his regiment, now 
appeared again. D’Eath had an idea that he did so under 
protest. In some ways — if only he had not been so anxious 
to seem perfectly unmoved and impartial — Charles was a 
good fellow. There was some tremendous discussion going 
on: talk which dropped or changed its tenor directly 
D’Eath entered the room. Once he heard Charles say: 

Well, it seems to me like taking a rotten advantage; why 
can’t you leave the poor old chap alone?” 

There were more meetings between Horace D’Eath and 
Roger Colburn, between the three sons ; conclaves in which 
the entire family, apart from the head of it, were involved. 

Once coming in upon them, assembled in the drawing- 
room one afternoon, realizing the sudden cessation of a 
heated argument, D’Eath lost his temper. Good God ! ” 
he exclaimed, “ am I a tame idiot, that you should all stop 
talking when I come into a room ? Out with it now. What 
do you want, what are you doing?” He spoke violently, 
utterly unlike himself. 

For a moment he had an impression of their faces, hung 
in space, as it were ; then Mary rose from her seat, crossed 
the room and laid one hand on his arm. Father, d?ar 
father, now what did Sir Humphrey say about not excitk 
yourself over things?” 

“ I don’t care what he said, the old fool ! But I can’t 
stand any more of this. I tell you I can’t stand it ! ” He 
stared round, defiant, trembling, while they stared back. 

“ Well, I must say, Hugh, dear, I am surprised ! ” Caro- 
line rolled up her knitting, stabbed her needles into it. It 
was as though she said, “ Well, if this isn’t the end of 
everything ! ” “Of course in your state of health w’e are 


6o 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


willing to make every possible allowance. But still I do 
think you might realize that we, the dear children, Horace 
and I, Mr. Colburn ” — she never by any chance included 
Gertie in anything which she regarded as calling for a dis- 
play of common sense — “ are trying our very best to save 
you all possible worry, considering you in every way. 
What else should we be here for now, in the Sea- 
son ? ” 

“ Fm sure it’s very disagreeable for all of us,” put in 
Gertie. “ No one likes illness, and if only people would 
cultivate the habit of subduing the mind to the body there 
would be an end of it, once and for all.” She spoke with 
decision, for she was an ardent Christian Scientist, so long 
as she herself was in good health. 

There was a moment’s pause. The room, the people in 
it, seemed to swim before Hugh D’Eath’s eyes; he had a 
feeling as if nothing, nobody, was quite real. He happened 
to be wearing a dark blue suit, and the legs of his trousers 
were covered with little bits of fluff — ^because when he had 
sat down to rest for a while after lunch Mary had insisted 
upon covering his knees with a light fleecy shawl — and the 
very knowledge that he looked untidy helped to unnerve 
him. 

Charles walked over to the window whistling softly to 
himself, while George crossed his legs and began sharpen- 
ing a pencil ; Mary picked up her drawn thread work, pulled 
it out, turned it over, flattening it upon her knees with large 
white hands, which trembled a little. 

‘‘Well?” said D’Eath. No one could ask him to sit 
down in his own house, particularly now, with the remem- 
brance of what they had just been saying, thinking — ^though 
at any other time Mary would have reminded him that he 
had been warned against overfatigue. And so he stood, as 
awkwardly as a naturally graceful man could, almost in 
the middle of the room, looking as though he were on his 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 6i 

trial — defendant or plaintiff, it would have been difficult to 
say which. 

Charles half turned. “ Look here, father, there is some- 
thing ” He paused, then swung round towards his 

elder brother. “ This is your business, George ; you started 
it. Why can’t you tell him straight out — have it done 
with one way or another ? ” Charles’s long, smooth face 
was red; for the moment he had a look of Susie — Susie 
as she might be if she got set.” 

“ Don’t you think, considering — well, considering my 

profession, if I were to say a few words ?” began 

Harold deprecatingly. 

“ Heavens above ! you’re not going to read the funeral 
service over me before I’m dead ? ” flashed out D’Eath. 

My dear father ! ” 

“ My dear Hugh ! ” 

It was like a Greek chorus : the inevitability of it. 

‘‘Well, father, it’s a damned awkward thing to have 
to say; but as you seem to be in the sort of mood to 
resent everything we do— of course, we know that you’re 
frightfully seedy and all that — perhaps it’s best to have 
the whole thing out at once.” George rose as he spoke 
and, walking over to the mantelshelf, stood leaning one 
arm upon it. Already, or so it seemed to D’Eath, there 
was the premonition of a curve in his tan waistcoat. 
And this was the same creature that he remembered — red, 
wrinkled, screaming, with tiny fists screwed into its eyes. 
These — ^these mature men and women — were his own chil- 
dren. “ It appears,” went on George, rather more pom- 
pously in that he was nervous, “there are certain things 
that it’s best to have out, don’t you know.” 

“ Really,” put in Mary brightly, “ all this talk of going 
abroad, dear father, all this change — well, it’s like moving 
house, you do find things — well, you find things perhaps 
not quite as they should be.” 


62 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


“ I wouldn’t have said anything — at least, not yet,” went 
on George. “ But to a certain extent, don’t you know, 
my hand’s been forced.” He stared, rather sourly, at 
Charles as he spoke. 

“ No special premium on chairs, is there ? ” remarked 
Charles, and glanced at his father. It was kindly meant, 
delicate for Charles; but a sort of perverse humor had 
come over D’Eath, who realized that he made them all 
uneasy by standing. 

“ The fact is, father,” continued George, “ I’ve been 
about the place a good deal more than usual lately. I 
suppose when a man’s married, got others to think of, he 
naturally takes a greater interest in a property that — a 

property — hum ” For a moment he paused, reddening, 

then began again : “ Anyhow, the sober fact is that things 
are not going on quite as they ought to do; haven’t been 
for some time, for the matter of that. Tdms has got the 
woods into a terrible state ; they must have wanted thinning 
for years. Of course, I know that this sort of thing bores 
you frightfully, that you don’t care for the country, but 
still 

“ I’ve lived here all my life.” 

“ Yes, but that — ^you must forgive my saying so — that’s 
rather a different thing, isn’t it ? ” Suddenly George was 
at his ease again, patronizing. D’Eath realized that, after 
all, he might not have been such a fool in his profession 
as he seemed; anyhow, when he cornered an opponent he 
knew how to hold him down. 

“ There’s next to no game. Dawkins tells me the poach- 
ing has got beyond words since you refused to convict that 
fellow Grimes.” 

“ Grimes I That poor devil ! He was out of work, had 
no end of children — and one pheasant ! What would I have 
done with it? Sent it to some friend of my own with too 
much to eat already!” 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


63 

“ All the same, that’s no excuse for rank dishonesty — 
poaching ! Why, he wasn’t even one of your tenants, was 
he ? I know how it put Kennington’s back up when the man 
got off. Deuced hard luck when you remember that he 
spends hundreds a year on his preserves. And it’s not 
only that. The tenants are taking every bit they can out of 
the land, putting nothing in it, selling hay and straw un- 
checked. Buildings are literally dropping to pieces. God 
only knows what Cherry has done with all the money that’s 
supposed to have been spent upon them; frittered it away, 
or worse ! ” 

How do you know what’s supposed to have been 
spent ? ” 

“ Well, Brown and Cleaver gave me a hint, told me a 
certain amount.” 

“ They had no right to tell you anything.” D’Eath’s 
voice was icy, his blue eyes steady on his son’s face. He 
moved a step or two farther into the room, and rested 
one hand on the back of a chair. Suddenly it seemed cer- 
tain that his eldest son was the defendant, caught in that 
most dastardly of all crimes — spying. How continually he 
had given in to them in every way. But still there 
was a limit, and his gorge rose at the thought of his 
affairs being pried into, fingered over: his oldest, most 
tried friends and dependents — Toms, Cherry — con- 
demned. 

After all, you must remember, father, I am the eldest 
son. Things have got to be straightened out some way or 
other; there’ll be no end to the trouble if — if anything 
should happen. It seems to me natural enough that I should 
want to see the men who, after all, will be my own lawyers ; 
explain to them a little what we — well, what we have rea- 
son to fear, what the specialist ” 

‘‘ Fear ? Hope, you mean ! ” 

** Father, dear father, why will you talk like that?” 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


64 

interposed Mary. You must know that our one idea is to 
make things as easy as possible for you.” 

“ Cherry — Cherry, too ! ” It was as though D’Eath 
brushed her aside. Cherry ! Why, we were at school 
together, when he was a big boy, I a little one ! 
Cherry ! ” 

‘‘ I know, we all know, my dear Hugh,” put in Horace 
soothingly, Cherry’s a fine fellow, a very fine fellow, a 
good specimen of his class. We all have — ^well, almost an 
affection for Cherry. But still it does not alter the fact that 
we’re afraid he’s a bit of a muddler; takes too much upon 
himself.” 

“ It’s all confoundedly awkward,” put in Roger Colburn. 
He had got up from his seat and was moving to and fro, 
stumping sideways with his crab-like movement. “ ’Pon 
my soul there’s no one hates interfering with another man’s 
affairs more than I do. But don’t you see, it’s not only 
Dene Royal, there’s Buttons to be considered.” Buttons 
was the small estate which had belonged to D’Eath’s wife, 
was left in trust for her daughters, with Horace D’Eath and 
her brother as joint executors. The man you’ve got in 
there is hopeless; letting the whole place go to rack and 
ruin. I could have told you that the first day I saw 
him out hunting; can’t ride for nuts. My God, what a 
seat! And then look at his boots — 3 , regular counter- 
jumper! ” 

Well, Buttons and Dene Royal and myself all wrong. 
‘ What now, to follow? ’ as the waiters say.” Hugh D’Eath 
moved across to the window-seat and sat down, staring out 
at the dappled light and shade, the shaven lawns, with never 
a fallen leaf, the orderly flower beds, blazing with color. A 
sense of immense weariness and dissatisfaction swept over 
him. He would go on like this day after day for a few 
more months ; then he, too, would be turfed over. Bo little 
life left, and yet nothing happening to justify even that 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 65 

little. He realized now when people begin to get really old ; 
it is when there are no possibilities left to them. 

Even Nauheim would be preferable to this; anyhow he 
would be free from his family’s preoccupation with “ the 
funeral baked meats.” 

“ Don’t you think it would be better to speak quite 
frankly; tell me what you expect me to do?” 

The word “ expect ” sounded awkward, but still D’Eath 
spoke with a certain reasonableness which gave them hope. 
One could do anything with people if only they would be 
reasonable. 

Then it all came out, for George began with a halting 
reference to old Sir Philip Harding, and in a moment 
D’Eath had caught the gist of what was required of him. 
Philip Harding had divided his estate — country houses, 
which he hated, involving a country life, which bored him, 
and certain other properties, fishing lodge in Ireland, man- 
sion in Cavendish Square — between his children some years 
earlier; reserving a fair-sized regular income for himself, 
stipulating that he was to be allowed to go his own way, not 
bothered about anything. At this time every one had said 
that old Harding was in his dotage ; D’Eath himself remem- 
bered having quoted “ King Lear.” But now, quite sud- 
denly, it seemed as though Harding were beside him, with 
that scent of fine cigars, that odd laugh, so like a bark, that 
they were fellow cronies. Harding was nudging him in the 
ribs, infecting him with his own idea, his own point of view. 
He remembered how the old man had said to him once, 
years before : “ We start building our own mausoleums 
from the time we marry; heaping up obligations, ties; our 
families sit on our chests, keep us down. They and all the 
other things that every one expects of us. By God, D’Eath, 
there’s no tyranny in the world like the tyranny of a posi- 
tion; above all if it be in the country. You must lose your 
character or your money, or you’re done for.” 


66 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


They said that old Harding had a gay little mistress in 
town ; there was no end of what they said. Certainly if he 
had felt like Lear he had not looked it on the few occasions 
D’Eath met him in Piccadilly, with his immaculate, curly 
top hat at a light-hearted angle. Lady Harding had been 
dead for years ; but she had always seemed old, with none 
of the interest of the really antique; like a piece of mid- 
Victorian furniture. 

So this was what they wanted of him, was it? An im- 
mense sense of lightheartedness came over Hugh D’Eath at 
the thought. But he would not help them ; it amused him to 
hear them edge round and round the subject; to catch the 
repetition of that phrase, “ If anything should happen ” ; 
the insistence upon saving him trouble; the dislike he had 
always shown for the numberless petty duties of a country 
squire. There was even some word of the family having 

a stake in the country,” which he took to mean George 
standing for Parliament; filling old Staunton’s seat. They 
never once mentioned the word “ death-duties ” ; though 
that, like the inner life of a cocoon, was the true reason 
for all this winding. 

Still D’Eath would give them no help. It seemed as 
though his momentary reasonableness was gone, for he 
simply stood silent, smiling in a fashion which drove his 
brother Horace to remark, later on, walking home across 
the park with his curate, that he really thought poor Hugh’s 
illness was affecting his brain. They called him “dear 
Hugh ” now ; when he was dead they would call him “ poor 
dear Hugh.” He knew that — even Horace, who believed in 
the glories of an everlasting life. 

“ It struck me that he had acquired a very beautiful 
expression, a spiritual expression,” remarked Harold ; upon 
which his uncle glanced at him sideways, shooting out his 
lips, showing that contempt with which even the Church 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


67 

regards an effeminate ^oung man. It seemed to Horace 
D’Eath — robust, full-blooded, well-fed, prosperous, father 
of six children, judge of a good horse, good wine, a fine 
woman — ^that all this teetotal, ritualistic, bobbing business 
was playing the very deuce with the Church of England. 

‘^Ah, well, the ways of the Lord are past finding out,” 
he remarked comfortably. “To think that your poor father 
is only eighteen months older than I am; but no stamina; 
absolutely no stamina.” 

“ I feel very strongly that some one ought to speak a 
few words to him, prepare him. And yet it’s so awkward 
to say anything.” 

“ Quite so, quite so.” There was a moment’s pause. 
The rector was thinking, puffihg out his lips, drawing them 
in again. “ Quite so, quite so.” If the curate had a dis- 
taste for mentioning religion to any save the working 
classes his rector more than shared it; while apart from 
this it seemed a sort of impertinence in one’s own nephew. 
He moved in a zig-zag fashion, cutting at the thistles with 
his spud ; for that was a way he had of signifying that his 
brother Hugh was hopeless as a landowner; of doing his 
best for Dene Royal, the family. There was something 
relentless in the sharp jerk he gave to the stem of an offend- 
ing weed, the measured pace with which he would turn 
aside from his path, a large, smooth blot of black upon the 
green landscape. It would have taken three ordinary curates 
to make such a man. 

“ I was wondering, HaroM,” he began, then diverged 
again — “ it’s no good unless you get ’em before they begin 
to seed; wouldn’t you think, now, that Cherry would see 
to a thing like this, with all the idle old men there are 
about the place ? — ^how much there is left of that old brown 
sherry your grandfather laid down ; whether George would 
do a deal with me. He hates sherry; I’ve heard him say 


68 WHILE THERE’S LIFE 

so time after time, and it’s far too good to be wasted on the 
girls.” 

“We none of us touch sherry,” remarked Harold sen- 
tentiously, with that air of making a matter of principle of 
all he said; glass-window attitudinizing, with strange ges- 
tures of the hands, even over eating an egg. 


CHAPTER VIII 


Susie was not expected home during the first part of her 
summer holidays, was going to the sea with some friends. 

It will brace her up,” that was what Mary said. Besides, 
it would not be very nice to have a young girl about the 
house with Peggy and all.” 

Perhaps it was this which did more than anything else 
to decide D’Eath definitely in favor of Nauheim. If there 
could be anything in favor of anything else, when life 
looked like a dark street — with houses on either side, all 
tall and blind, all exactly alike, terminating in a cul-de-sac 
and a dustbin. In the old days, when the world was new, 
full of adventure, it might have been Charon and his 
skiff; but Hugh D’Eath visualized it as ending — that cir- 
cumscribed street of life — with the dustman and his 
cart : a blear-eyed man, a broken-kneed, rusty black 
horse. 

Young Brown, of “ Cleaver, Brown & Son,” came down 
to see him. There were more family conclaves. Gradually, 
with much delicacy, the en wrappings were unwound from 
the cocoon, and that hidden skeleton of death dues — losing 
nothing from the reflection that its size and terror were 
alike due to the possession of a remarkably large income, 
very considerable landed property — revealed naked in the 
hand of Brown — Son — so smooth-faced, so very red about 
the gills, that he looked as though he had been scalded 
instead of shaved, making up in aloof lucidity for what he 
lacked in years. It was as though he said : I had nothing 
to do with the institution of death, but as it is a concrete 
fact that people do die, legal men like myself are an act of 
God.” 


69 


70 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


Even after D’Eath had consented, or as good as con- 
sented, to follow old Harding’s example, there was a 
tremendous amount of detail to be arranged. It seemed 
that outlying scraps of property, small sums invested in 
all sorts of strange foreign ventures — Argentine, Chinese, 
Turkish, Russian, Balkan, for though the average English- 
man distrusts every race but his own he seems to feel most 
happy with his money well out of England — stray legacies 
which had dropped in from those numerous relations who 
do leave money to rich people, kept on cropping up and 
putting them all out. But gradually, with the help of young 
Mr. Brown and his inhuman competence, with valuers and 
auditors, matters straightened themselves, and a document 
was drawn up passing on the main bulk of the property. 
Dene Royal and all the outlying farms, the greater part of 
the money, as a gift to George; Little Laishens, a smaller 
place over the other side of The Hill, and seventy thousand 
pounds to Charles ; a very comfortable income to Harold — 
quite sufficient to show that he had no desire to make any 
parade of the religion of poverty — and a substantial share 
to the three girls, under the management of George, Roger 
Colburn, and Horace D’Eath, along with immediate posses- 
sion of Buttons, if so be that they desired to live there, if not 
the income accruing therefrom; while along with all this 
were smaller gifts — which might have been legacies — to 
every relation and dependent. 

It seemed, indeed, that nobody had been forgotten. 
They were all very fairly, nay, generously treated. The 
income which D’Eath reserved for himself was a small one 
from the one obscure investment which he had ever made 
altogether upon his own initiative ; while, if Sir Humphrey 
had been right, without doubt this also would very shortly 
join the common pool. 

But no sooner was the document drawn up, with the full 
sanction of every one concerned, than they began to see 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


71 

faults in it. From the moment that young Brown left Dene 
Royal with the rough draft a deep depression and sense of 
grievance beyond all words hung over them all, for there is 
nothing more aggravating than to get what you want and 
then find it is not all you thought. George felt that he was 
likely to be hampered at every turn by the amount of money 
which his younger brothers and sisters would take away 
from the place. ‘‘ As to making settlements on Mary for 
Mary’s children,” said Peggy, '' as if that isn’t absolutely 
tommy-rot ! ” 

This was the point she, fixed on. But they all fixed on 
something. Irene was furious because George had been 
given a certain amount of authority over her despite her 
express wishes, because her money was tied up for the 
children which she declared she would never have. Vera 
did not see why Buttons should not be sold and the proceeds 
divided, as it was not likely that she could ever live there. 
Charles said that Little Laishens had needed a new sanitary 
installation for years, and it seemed jolly hard luck to expect 
that to come out of his pockets ; besides, it was miles from 
all the best meets, and there was George who did not really 
care for hunting in the very middle of the best part of the 
county. During the old days Charles had saved up all his 
leave for the winter, brought his hunters to Dene Royal, 
paid nothing for forage or attendance; in this he stood to 
lose. He was not very quick, did not grasp the fact that 
his increased income would more than make up for this. 
It would give him ‘‘ the deuce of a lot of trouble,” that was 
as far as he saw, and George had much better have left 
things as they were; it was George who had started the 
whole thing. As to Mary, she hated Buttons; and though 
it was nice to have Peggy as a visitor at Dene Royal, fuss 
round her and patronize her, she did not care for the idea 
of giving up her place as mistress of the house, the maids 
who all belonged to the Girls’ Friendly Bociety, to a sister- 


72 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


in-law who never went to church, had no idea of looking 
after the villagers, managing the parish nurse. 

They had always had just as much money as ever they 
needed from their father, and no trouble about it; the sense 
of a settled income galled and half frightened them. 

As for the rest of the family, Hugh D’Eath had always 
been hopelessly impractical about money, but there are 
advantages accruing to a man who thoroughly realizes that 
“ to lend ” is, with relations, merely a polite euphonism for 
“ to give ” — arranged to save people’s feelings, like “ not at 
home” — who never reminds, apparently never remembers. 

They said very little. But if one member of the family 
were alone in a room he, or she, made some excuse for 
leaving it when any other single member entered. They 
were happier in the herd, or alone; each had a particular 
grievance and was frightened of the encroachment of an- 
other’s grievance. The house began to have a stripped 
look, it seemed to D’Eath as though all small personal 
possessions were being surreptitiously removed. 

Day after day, at tea, after dinner in the evenings he 
sat in his great winged chair gleefully cognizant of his 
family’s sense of discomfort. How often, for the first time 
in the lives of any one of them did he hear the complaint: 
** Oh, I shan’t be able to afford that now” or, “ My dear, 
you mustn’t expect me to live in that sort of style.” 

One day he came across Mary in the long south border, 
busy with a trowel and little fork ; the ground was hard with 
the long drought, and she was very hot. “ Why don’t you 
let one of the men do that, my dear ? ” he said kindly ; and 
then, noticing that the back of his eldest daughter’s neck 
crimsoned, that she had a box beside her full of small, 
brown, earthy objects, realized she was moving her bulbs, 
though it was ten to one they would not survive such treat- 
ment at that time of year. 

On another occasion he encountered Mrs. St. John in the 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


73 


upper corridor, almost running with her short, quick steps, 
the forward curve of a stout person in a hurry. She was 
going so fast round a corner that they collided, while one 
corner of her skirt, which she held gathered up in her hand, 
dropped, and a miscellaneous collection of objects rolled to 
the floor and along the passage. D’Eath stooped to help 
pick them up, almost helpless with laughter, for the expres- 
sion of Gertie’s face — round as a globefish, the raised eye- 
brows, the open mouth — ^had been beyond words. There 
was broken china, a delicate cup with the handle gone, a 
saucer in fragments, the miniature of Great Uncle General 
Sir John D’Eath, a small silver ship, a scent bottle with a 
gold stopper which had once belonged to Queen Caroline, a 
Georgian sugar sifter, and numerous other trifles. 

“ They’re mine ! ” cried Gertie ; and then pulled herself 
together with a little aggrieved laugh. My dear Hugh, 
what a fright you gave me ! I do wish you wouldn’t creep 
about like that. I was just collecting a few odds and ends 
that dear mother gave me. I always left them for you, 
but I knew that Peggy wouldn’t care for them, I never met 
any one so completely without any sentiment or taste for 
associations. Really, it does seem rather dreadful ” — she 
had been going to say “ that she should come to be mistress 
here” — ^but suddenly, spying some small silver object which 
had rolled away up the corridor, she pounced and left her 
sentence unfinished. 

After all there was some slight flaw in the draft, and 
young Brown was obliged to journey down to Dene Royal 
to straighten it out. 

When he came again it was all complete and ready to 
be signed. 

This rearrangement had, however, taken more time than 
they calculated upon; for by then it was the twentieth of 
July, and everything was arranged for D’Eath to go to 
Nauheim on the twenty-second after one night in town. 


74 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


Mary was accompanying him. They had beaten the close 
covers of relations in vain search for some one else, but 
without success. To D’Eath’s continued plea that he should 
be allowed to go alone, there was that one unanswerable 
objection : — What would people say if we let you go away 
alone, ill as you are?” 

That “ people ” was paralyzing ; it was worse than God. 
For the unbelieving might say, “ God won’t notice,” the 
believing “ God will understand ” ; but neither of these 
sophisms was of any use in regard to people.” 

Perhaps the feelings of the D’Eath family were more 
complicated than they realized. They were bound to regard 
their father as an almost hopeless case in order to justify 
the partition of his worldly goods; and if he was really 
as ill as all that, how was it possible for them to allow 
him to travel alone? 

Still no one excepting Mary could be found willing to 
tread the path of duty. Irene was out of the question, 
for she was working for an exam. ; she was always working 
for exams. She had no idea of taking up any special pro- 
fession when she had passed them; though she spoke of 
finishing off with a course of domestic economy, and then 
“ having a slack.” 

Mary did not want to go to Germany, though she was 
upheld by a sense of martyrdom, the oft-uttered reflection 
that “ of course, dear father knows he can always depend 
upon me.” She would probably miss Vera’s wedding, 
which was fixed for the end of August, because all sorts of 
things might happen in Nauheim ; she would also miss the 
arrival of George’s baby. Vera was relieved, because she 
wanted just to be married,” and Mary was set on ‘‘ a 
wedding.” Peggy was relieved because Mary’s attitude, 
which seemed to regard the expected infant as altogether 
D’Eath, was hard to bear. I’d jolly well like to know 
where George’s baby would be if it wasn’t for me?” she 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


75 


asked. “ That old Mary, it would serve her right to have 
triplets of her own; not that she’s got any figure to lose.” 

Young Brown arrived at Dene Royal at five o’clock, and 
had tea in the garden. The whole party was assembled to- 
gether. Mary with the coat of her gray travelling suit on 
her knee, was taking out the weights at the corners and 
replacing them with sovereigns stitched into the lining, be- 
cause she had been told that one was always perfectly 
safe abroad so long as one had a piece of English gold, 
and never drank the water. Peggy was there in a pretty, 
loose muslin gown with painted flowers upon it; very — 
though perhaps a little hectically — cheerful. 

Horace D’Eath already made one of the party; and just 
as tea was finished Roger Colburn rode up the drive, very 
stiff, on a hog-maned cob, his game leg stuck out a trifle, 
the other close to his mount’s side. A hard, gray man, in 
a gray cord suit on a gray cob. 

He would not have any tea, but asked for a whisky 
and soda, and went off with George to the dining-room, 
while young Mr. Brown retired in search of his papers. 
They were all to meet in the study. 

Mary slipped her arm into her father’s; he was very ill, 
and she felt very responsible and capable, which pleased 
her. Her luggage was already packed, strapped, and 
labeled, and Collins had filled her flask. You mustn’t be 
nervous, father,” she said, and patted his arm. ‘‘You 
mustn’t let yourself be fussed. Just leave everything to me 
and James.” James was going with them to Nauheim. 

They were moving towards the house, Horace in front 
of them, taking a zig-zag path over the lawn, stubbing up 
his brother’s plantains with some new instrument which he 
had just acquired, when Peggy, whom they had left with a 
book in her long chair, called to Mary. 

“ Mary, Mary ! ” It was an oddly sharp cry, showing 
entreaty, fear, pain, a quite sudden desire for Mary’s help, 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


76 

companionship. When they returned they saw that Peggy’s 
face had gone a greenish white; her always prominent 
brown eyes were bolting. 

“ Go on, father, don’t wait for me,” said Mary, and 
turned back to her sister-in-law’s side. A moment or so 
later she passed him. Horace was at his side by now, 
talking of the hay, only just in despite the weeks of perfect 
weather. It seemed as though it were a matter of religion 
with all of them never to leave him alone ; to hand him on 
from one to another. 

Mary almost ran to the house, and a moment later re- 
appeared with George. The rector puffed out his cheeks. 

“ Peggy not well ? Dear, dear ! I hope But you must 

not allow yourself to be agitated, Hugh, my dear fellow; 
you must consider your own health. We old married men, 
we know. Nature — eh, what?” 

Hugh D’Eath and his brother turned into the study; 
the dining-room door was open, and a scent of whisky 
wafted through it, overcoming the perfume of mignonette, 
which Mary had arranged in a glass vase upon the writing- 
table; though she had said that really it did not seem 
much good “ doing the flowers and things ” for there 
would be nobody to bother about them when she was 
gone. 

In another moment Roger Colburn joined them, and, 
standing by the open window, the three men saw George 
help his wife back to the house. A little later a groom, on 
horseback, appeared and disappeared at a gallop upon the 
one curve of drive which was visible. 

Eh, yes, yes ! ” The Reverend Horace and old Colburn 
glanced at each other and nodded ; their faces had assumed 
a look of unctuous triumph; the triumph of the conquer- 
ing sex. 

There was a fresh whiff of whisky from the open door 
of the dining-room ; the gurgle of a syphon. Then came the 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


77 


shrill voice of Peggy’s French maid, crossing the hall, mov- 
ing towards the dining-room. At the same moment old 
Nanny appeared on the threshold of the study. “ Master 
George, please, sir ? ” 

She addressed her master, but her slow, contemptuous 
gaze moved from him to the other two men, then back 
again. Roger Colburn had eight children, the rector six; 
there was the master with seven. Her glance condemned 
them, yet condoned because they were only men ; could not 
help themselves. They saw her nostrils twitch, and she 
glanced towards the dining-room door. “ Master George, 
you’re wanted,” she said. And then, “ Master George ! ” 
She did not move to fetch him, called him as she had done 
in far-away days, certain of obedience, for she had a firm 
hand with D’Eath’s children. 

From the inner room came, “ Ah, monsieur ! Mon Dieu, 
la pauvre madame ! Madame demande — ” The words ran 
out into a stream of ejaculations and entreaty that mon- 
sieur would make haste ; come to madame. But it was evi- 
dent that they were disregarded, for the next moment 
George appeared at the study door, with a glass in one 
hand. 

Nanny fixed him; her fresh-colored and usually benevo- 
lent face was hard and keen, her wide mouth folded tight 
as though she were trying to keep back all that she knew 
of life and death. 

“You’re wanted. Master George,” she said, and turned, 
then stood aside to allow him to pass through the door 
before her. 

“ Why, what the devil can I do ? ” broke out the young 
man violently. His hair was a trifle ruffled as Hugh had 
never seen it since his school days, and this alone gave him 
a strange — ^what Susie might call “ a disintegrated ” air. 
There was something at once frightened and defiant in his 
stare ; it was as though he might have said to Nanny, as he 


78 WHILE THERE’S LIFE 

so often had said, trembling beneath her steady eye, “ It 
wasn’t me ! ” But as it was he said nothing, put down his 
glass on the nearest table, and left the room, after one 
sheepish glance at the three elder men, who knew all 
about it. 


CHAPTER IX 


There was no question of signing the deed of gift that 
evening, and young Mr. Brown spent his time playing bil- 
liards with Charles. 

The drawing-room was deserted save for Aunt Caroline. 
Every now and then Mrs. St. John came running in, hesi- 
tated, as though trying to remember what she was there 
for, why she was so busy, and then departed hurriedly, with 
a cushion or book for which she had no use whatever, 
merely because she felt her sister’s eyes upon her, did not 
wish to appear aimless. It really seemed very heartless of 
Caroline to go on with her knitting at such a time ; though, 
after all, if Peggy had thought,” as she ought to have 
thought before her child came, she would not be suffering 
now. 

Every half-hour by the clock Caroline laid down her 
knitting and sailed majestically up to what she called the 
room ” — not sick-room,” because dear Peggy’s state was 
due to nature — to inquire. She held her majestic head 
high, her back erect. It was as though she would cry “ Ha, 
ha ! ” — smelling the battle from afar off. 

Towards twelve o’clock George came into the study — 
where his father sat before a wood fire which he had lighted 
for himself — his brown boots drenched with dew. For the 
doctor had advised the young man to go for a walk, and he 
had been across the park, up the hill by Mars Lane and 
back by Laishens. 

All the way home he had hurried; driven, from the 
moment he turned, by the thought of what might have hap- 
pened during his absence. Pie was no longer able to main- 
tain that detachment from Peggy which he regarded as 

79 


8o 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


‘‘the thing,” even in his secret thoughts. It seemed as 
though her suffering, which she had taken no pains to hide, 
pricked out a sweat of agony upon his own brow. Surely 
it must be all safely over by now? Unless — the very 
thought of the alternative drove him into a run. 

And yet when he reached the house he was told that 
there was no change, that the whole infernal thing was still 
going on; stood awhile outside Peggy’s door, which had 
been his door also, listening to her moans, without daring to 
go in — for by now she was too weak to demand his pres- 
ence with that sort of fierce malice which she had dis- 
played at the beginning — then moved slowly downstairs and 
stood before the study fire, warming his hands, shivering a 
little like a fine hound. 

His eyes were bloodshot and furtive as he glanced side- 
ways at his father, wondering if he had been through 
anything like this when he, George, was born; resentful 
because he felt that this elderly man was broken to the 
whole thing, might despise him for the emotion which he 
could not entirely hide; unreasonably angry, in a way he 
had never been before, with everything and everybody; 
most angry because of the inexplicable and unfamiliar feel- 
ing of being in the wrong; having everything and every- 
body against him. 

D’Eath realized this. For the first time since George 
was a tiny child — for he had so soon grown self-possessed, 
self-sufficient — it seemed that he could feel for his son, 
with that sort of feeling which penetrated beneath the outer 
crust of education and conceit. 

“ I know it’s perfectly damnable,” he said, “ and the 
worst of it is that one never really gets used to it, never, 
never.” It was no wonder that he spoke with feeling. 
Clara D’Eath had been a strong woman. She must have 
suffered in her body when her seven children were born, 
suffered horribly, as all women do at such times. But she 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


8i 


had what the doctors and nurses call “ a good time,” was 
phlegmatic by nature. It was her husband’s nerves which 
had been torn to ribbons seven times in succession; he 
who had gone through agonies of self-reproach and terror : 
she who always wished to have children, he who would 
have done almost anything to avoid it — the pretentious 
mystery, the fuss, the indecent pain, the confusion, the 
horrible details; the shameful, red-faced, protesting atom 
which was the outcome of it all. 

The doctor came in rubbing his hands. “ A fire ! Well, 
well, this is a pleasant sight ! ” He stretched out his hands 
to the blaze as he spoke. “ Did you see the evening paper? 
Upon my soul things seem to be getting into a pretty serious 
state in Ireland.” 

George had sunk into a chair, slouching in a way he 
seldom did, his hands in his pockets, his legs stuck out 
straight in front of him. He glanced at the urbane, con- 
fident man — who after all knew more about his wife than 
he did — with dislike and contempt. “ Lord ! ” he thought, 
‘‘who would be a doctor?” — then jerked out hoarsely, 
“ How is she ? ” 

“Your wife? Oh, capital, capital! A little slow per- 
haps, but perfectly normal ; maintaining her strength most 
wonderfully.” 

“ Oh ! ” George’s sidelong glance was almost savage. 
At that moment he could have borne it better had he heard 
that Peggy was in immediate danger. “ Making me look 
like a fool I ” that was what he thought. After all, if the 
case was so simple as this ass made it out to be, surely the 
whole thing should be over by now. 

“I’m inclined to think that if we could once get some 
one with a really firm hand,” went on the doctor, returning 
to Ireland, as people do when they are tired, “ that matters 
might be straightened out. Of course, Birrell’s no match 
for ” 


82 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


He broke off, as from far away in the silent depths of 
this tranquil and well-ordered house, there came the sound 
of a shrill, strangely wild, and primitive cry. 

Perhaps he was more attentive than he had seemed, for 
he heard it in a moment, and was out of the door. They 
could hear him running upstairs as a second cry, louder 
than the first, came cutting the air towards them. 

“ Good God ! ” exclaimed George violently ; got up from 
his chair and turned towards the fire, his elbows on the 
mantelpiece, his head down upon them, his hands pressed 
to either side of his head; though whether he was in pain 
or trying to shut out any fresh sound it would have been 
difficult to say. 

D’Eath sat silent without stirring, and in some dull way 
George was grateful to him for this. The very next day, 
he thought, he would make young Brown tear up that deed 
of gift. It did not matter a damn what the others chose 
to say; after all, this old fellow was near to him, nearer 
than he had ever thought, must have had a devil of a time 
in his day. 

The two men had remained thus for close on half an 
hour, D’Eath sitting motionless in his chair, George with 
his head between his hands, standing before the graying 
fire, when there was the sound of feet pattering down the 
stairs, and Gertie St. John ran into the room. She was 
so excited that she could not speak, but stood panting with 
her hand dramatically pressed to her heart, while her 
brother and nephew stared at her; George with an oddly 
ravaged face, his hair at the back of his head where it 
had lolled against the chair, erect in that crest which he had 
battled against when he was a boy ; overcome, once for all, 
as he thought, at the age of nineteen. 

“ My darling Georgie, it’s a son ! ” broke out Gertie at 
last. “A son — such a fine little chap! A regular 
D’Eath!” 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 83 

"Oh, well,” said George, and passed a careful hand 
down the back of his head, smoothing himself with one 
touch, with a sort of drooping of the eyelids, back into 
his old smooth self. ‘‘ And now I suppose I may be per- 
mitted to see my wife,” he added, and moved out of the 
room, without a glance at his father; thinking that, after 
all, there would be plenty of time to have the deed signed 
next morning before starting for the train. 

A son ! Aunt Gertie had said a son ! All the more rea- 
son that things should be got into some sort of order. 

In his man’s way he imagined everything to be settled 
because he himself felt settled and at ease. 


CHAPTER X 


That evening, when the birth of a son had been announced 
to George D’Eath, after he had smiled approval upon 
Peggy, and had a few words with the doctor, it seemed cer- 
tain that life would take up its normal course again; en- 
riched and solidified by the complete possession of Dene 
Royal, which he would manage as it had never been man- 
aged before. There was no end to his plans, for, like all 
Colburns, he had a passion for detail. 

But next morning everything was again changed. From 
having got over her actual confinement quite nicely, Peggy 
dropped into a state of grave weakness. ** We’re not alto- 
gether out of the wood yet,” said the doctor, after having 
declared that there never was any wood. When George 
awoke, heard the news, as he did while shaving, he was 
disturbed, upset; and yet by no means in that state to 
which he had fallen the night before. Perhaps, after all, 
it had been the child who was his concern ; and even more 
than the child, the heir, “ my son.” 

In general events at Dene Royal moved slowly. But 
on this particular morning decisions were taken in a flash, 
as it were. 

For weeks and weeks the whole family had discussed 
the question as to who should go to Germany with D’Eath; 
for weeks he had persisted that he was well able to go 
alone. Now suddenly, with hardly a word, this liberty was 
granted to him. How could Mary leave Peggy and the 
house, with things in such a state? It now seemed that 
if she deserted her sister-in-law people really would “ say 
things”; and after all James was going with her father. 
Almost in a moment James, who had been discounted for 

84 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


85 

anything beyond seeing to the luggage and valeting his 
master, came to be regarded as a very reliable person, 
‘‘ more an attendant than a servant.” Really nothing much 
could happen with James always at hand. 

D’Eath was immensely relieved. All that morning he 
was left very much to himself ; so much so that he made 
his man unstrap his luggage and put in the books which 
he had wished to take, but which Mary had said were too 
heavy. Not one single thought, no faintest memory of the 
deed of gift returned to mar his tranquillity; somehow 
it seemed that the relations between himself and his eldest 
son were settled, tranquillized, by the evening they had spent 
together; their new understanding of one another. 

The mist of the evening before had turned to early 
morning rain; the intense heat of the last few days was 
gone. He felt as though a weight were lifted from him. 
Nauheim would very likely prove detestable; he had only 
been to Germany once to take Irene to school in Hamburg, 
and he had hated the place and the people; detested every 
trace of it in his daughter. But still a move anywhere 
even for the worse, was better than staying on at Dene 
Rpyal, living as he had been living of late. 

Everything was ready. His train left Cottingham a few 
minutes past twelve. He was to leave the house at eleven 
fifteen, with the carriage and pair, because the carriage 
shook less than the motor — or perhaps because there was a 
tennis party at a house twelve miles away that afternoon, 
and Vera had promised to drive her lover, who was ex- 
pected to lunch, over in the motor. 

Soon after ten D’Eath was pottering about in his room, 
when George knocked at the door and walked in. “If 
you’ve got a few minutes to spare, father. Brown’s waiting 
in the study, and as he thinks of going up to town by the 
same train as you ” 

“Well, there’s plenty of time.” D’Eath was whistling 


86 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


to himself ‘‘ The Oak and the Ash and the Bonny Ivy 
Tree ” as he made a corner for Jack’s “ Mad Shepherds,” in 
a place which, five miutes earlier, had been sacred to those 
flannels upon which Mary believed his very life to depend. 
“ They have such terribly cold winds abroad,” she said, as 
though the entire globe apart from England, were governed 
by one unchanging temperature. 

“ Oh, for the train, yes, plenty of time.” George colored 
a little under his father’s vague, friendly smile. “ But 
there’s that deed of gift business, you know. Brown came 
down on purpose ; only we were all so busy last night.” 

Oh yes.” D’Eath raised himself, and moving over to 
his dressing-table began to straighten out the odds and ends 
still lying there, which James had left to go in his bag. 
«Oh— yes— the deed!” 

“Well, will you come now? Have you finished?” 

“ Oh, yes, certainly. I’ll come now.” 

“ Very well. Uncle Horace and Harold are down there 
already,” answered George, and turned towards the door. 
“ I’ll call Charles ; he’s in the stables.” 

Left alone D’Eath stood for a moment or so looking 
at himself in the glass. His lips had again taken up the 
tune which he had been whistling when his son entered 
the room. But he was not thinking of it now ; he whistled 
under his breath, regarding himself with a sort of gentle 
contempt. How foolish he had been to imagine that there 
would be anything of the George of last night left this 
morning. George’s fine figure was more erect, more well 
filled, as it were, than ever, his hair like a shining casque. 

D’Eath went slowly downstairs, across the hall and into 
the study. 

They were all there: Roger Colburn and his brother 
Horace, his sisters Caroline and Gertie, his three sons, two 
of his daughters. 

Vera wore a very stiffly starched, clean print; Mary 


WHILE THERE^S LIFE 


87 

was dressed in blue linen; the men, apart from the two 
clerics, were in light tweeds, and yet they gave an effect 
of stuffiness. Perhaps it was the way in which they were 
sitting, waiting, like nothing in the world so much as 
that “ party in a parlor, all silent and all damned,” thought 
D’Eath. 

Young Brown was there with the deed laid ready on 
the table. 

It was an occasion. Even Caroline was sitting with 
folded hands, looking stripped without her knitting. 

Mr. Brown cleared his throat and rearranged the papers 
in front of him. “ I think we have got it all in order 
now,” he said, and began to read. 

In the garden outside the thrushes were singing as 
though their very souls had drunk of the sweet, warm 
rain; there was a deep, continuous murmur of wood 
pigeons in the lime trees. D’Eath moved towards the win- 
dow and sat there, drawing in the freshness, the scents — 
lime and mignonette and petunia; the sounds — the deep 
contralto of the pigeons, which had built in those special 
trees ever since he could remember anything, the clear 
soprano of the thrushes, intermingling with the continual 
twittering of sparrows amidst the creepers. A sudden 
yearning tenderness swept over him for the place which 
he was so soon to relinquish ; to return to only as a visitor, 
if ever ! It seemed that every sort of arrangement had been 
made for his dying — taking up even less room than he 
did now in what old Toms called “ a wooden suit ” — and 
no arrangement of any sort for his living. 

How lovely the place was — ^how altogether lovely! And 
yet how it hurt in its loveliness, for the simple reason that 
it was not enough. Always there had been something 
wanting, even from the very first day when he came back 
there with his bride after a honeymoon in North Wales, 
where it rained without ceasing. Not that the rain would 


88 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


have mattered if — well, if things had been different, for 
there are worse fates than to be rain-bound with one you 
love; worse things than the braving of it shoulder to 
shoulder, arm in arm — 

‘*Thro’ wind and rain, and watch the Seine, 

And feel the Boulevart break again 
To warmth and light and bliss/* 

D’Eath had quoted this, and Clara had said, “ I do think 
poetry sounds so silly.” Yes, there had always been an 
“ if ” — something wanting. Of course, he ought to have 
grown used to the strangeness of the world, his own loneli- 
ness, long before this ; but it seemed as though his delicacy, 
his continual drawing apart had sensitized him, like a 
photographic plate, to every mood of the people around 
him ; that things had grown worse instead of better. 

Brown had finished with the main part of the deed of 
gift, had come to the minor distributions and stipulations. 
Cherry was to be retained until he wished to retire, and 
then there was a pension ready for him. Every one was 
to be kept on: Dawkins, the head keeper, though his mas- 
ter was quite aware that he regarded him with contempt, 
and George declared him to be hopeless with the pheasants ; 
Toms, Collins, Davies, old Barnett and his horses. Oh, 
but they would find the difference! D’Eath himself gave 
them a free hand, but George ! Far, far away back in the 
Colburn family there was a blank — ^before that, of course, 
the Crusaders — and at times D’Eath suspected this blank 
to have been filled by a tradesman of sorts. George’s way 
with money, which he spent largely, generous for himself 
alone ; his pecuniary memory — which is a thing apart, like 
a bridge memory, and which none of the really lovable peo- 
ple possess — suggested a progenitor who had jotted down 
petty accounts upon his shirt cuffs. 


WHILE THERE^S LIFE 


89 

Young Brown rounded off the special pensioners in 
Laishens, old Oxley among the rest; then dropped to a 
decorous silence. 

George got up from his seat and, walking over to the 
hearth, stood in front of it with an air of possession. 
Charles, his eyes on the ground, had his terrier on his 
knees, was pulling at its ears. He was conscious of a 
distaste for the whole business; it seemed rough on the 
old man, and he had no liking for Little Laishens. Though 
these objections were held in check by the memory of his 
many debts. 

“Well, I suppose thafs all right, eh?” said George. 

He looked like a bumptious schoolboy playing “ King 
of the Castle,” thought his father, and then: “What if I 
don't sign the confounded thing after all ? What if I refuse 
to sign it ? ” 

It seemed as though all the familiar, half -realized sights 
and scents were laying actual hands upon him, pleading, 
reproachful. “ It's always the little things that count,” he 
thought. These aggressive men and women, the great 
estate, the house, the manifold responsibilities, were all as 
nothing to him. It was the sly humor, the odd shifts of 
the country people; the knowledge of where certain birds 
built, certain flowers grew; the queer superstitions, the 
subtle scents, the sounds which caught at his heartstrings. 
He was like a man with a very efficient and creditable 
grown-up family by an immaculate wife, who yet pre- 
serves a whole series of separate, tender and altogether 
delightful affections for the toddling offsprings of some 
secret and unobtrusive mistress. Was it never the things, 
the people, who loomed largest in life that one loved, only 
the “ swan's nest among the reeds ” ? 

“ Now,” said young Brown, “ if I might trouble you to 
put your signature just here, Mr. D'Eath.” 

The words were like a spur to D'Eath, who found 


90 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


himself upon his feet, speaking words which seemed quite 
outside of himself, violent, defiant: 

‘^No! No — not to-day! I be hanged if I do! I tell 
you you won’t like it ; it won’t do ! ” Already his defiance 
was drooping to that old, fatal trick of appeal. “ Let us 
wait, anyhow, until I come back. I’m sure that it would 
be better not to sign, make the thing irrevocable — at least, 
not yet. To wait — to see what happens.” 

“Not sign! Not sign it now?” 

It seemed as though every one in the room uttered the 
same words at the same moment, with that dreadful sing- 
song of a family chorus; all excepting Charles, who mur- 
mured something which sounded like “ Check there ! ” 

Then came the inevitable — “ When everything’s settled.” 
It seemed as though the walls of Dene Royal must ooze and 
echo, be haunted with the oft-repeated, almost hereditary 
phrase. 

The very atmosphere changed. Up to this moment it 
had been all the easier — disintegrated, like loose garden soil 
— from the fact that they disagreed so greatly on so many 
minor points; that they were not quite certain whether, 
after all, they wished the division to be made absolute. 
“ There are so many things to be considered,” that was 
what they had said. 

But now — in a single moment — they were united. It 
was as though the very air thickened to battlements, forti- 
fications, bristled with chevaux-de-frise and gun emplace- 
ments. 

George himself stiffened like a hound at point ; he might 
have been melted and poured into his skin, set solid and 
almost unimaginably hard. He moved a little more per- 
fectly to the center of the hearth, and the act w.-^ symbolic, 
though he said nothing. His whole person showed the 
weary contempt of cocksure mediocrity for people who 
don’t know their own minds. 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


91 


Young Brown gave a little laugh, which was half cough. 
“ Come now, Mr. D’Eath, if you will kindly put your name 
here — just here — I won’t trouble you any further.” He 
spoke as though the exact position of the signature made 
everything quite easy for every one : almost wheedling, like 
a doctor with a sick child. 

D’Eath glanced round from one blank stony face to an- 
other — only Charles was standing with his back to the 
room staring out of the window. A sort of panic over- 
took him. It seemed that, somehow or other, they had him 
fixed. And that damnable paper. The exasperating part 
of the whole thing was that they were within their rights, 
that he had brought it all upon himself, simply by giving 
way. 

Through the laden silence came the song of thrushes, 
the twitter of small birds ; a sudden puff of wind sent the 
rain drops pattering from off the limes on to the shining 
laurels beneath the window. 

How good the world was I And yet it seemed to D’Eath, 
at that moment, as though he were permanently beaten by 
the people upon it, swept down and under by that most 
terrifying of all realizations — to a sensitive mind — the hard 
antagonism of one’s fellow creatures, the complete apart- 
ness of those whom the world would regard as most near 
and dear. 

“ I feel that the deed is a mistake,” he began obstinately, 
and again ended upon a note of which he instantly realized 
the weakness, the futility. “ And, after all, I am not so very 
old; too young to give up everything just yet. Better wait 
— see how George gets on.” 

George turned a little sideways, and, taking out his cigar- 
case, selected a cigar with care, then began cutting off the 
tip. “After all, my dear father, you’re no younger than 
you were a week ago when you agreed to everything,” he 


92 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


said, after a moment’s pause, speaking quite civilly, in his 
stiff, detached way. 

** And, Hugh dear, you know what Sir Humphrey said ! ” 
broke in Mrs. St. John, with a little gasp. To D’Eath 
it seemed that his youngest sister moved, spoke, had her 
being in a series of small explosions, like the engine of a 
motor-car. 

“ After all, don’t you think it would be a pity to change 
anything now, at the last moment, Mr. D’Eath? When 

we’ve all been led to expect ” began Mr. Brown. He 

did not even trouble to finish his sentence, did not take 
his client seriously, was not really disturbed. D’Eath knew 
this. “ Must humor them, take them easy — ^particularly the 
elderly ones,” that’s what he would have said. 

“ And, after all, he’s right. I’m not to be taken seriously ; 
if I had been it would have begun long ago,” thought 
D’Eath, without bitterness, for he knew his own weak- 
nesses, was at home with them. 

“ When everything’s settled and all.” 

"Well, all I can say is that I think you’re behavin’ 
damned queerly, Hugh — damned badly. Makin’ fools of us 
all in this way ! ” It was old Roger Colburn who spoke, 
purple in the face, rising to his feet, stumping up and down 
the room. " As to George, I don’t know what George ” 

" Let George speak for himself,” broke in D’Eath, and 
turned towards his eldest son. He knew that he was 
beaten; but all the same he was determined that George 
should be forced into delivering the ultimatum, which, after 
all ■ -lay with him. " Remember, you have a son of your 
own now. Remember that the same sort of thing may 
come to you — the cuckoo in the nest ” 

‘‘ My dear father, I don’t think this is exactly the sort 
of time for sentiment — more particularly sentiment which, 
if you’ll forgive me for saying so, is entirely false. As 
to myself, son or no son” — George stared at his father 


WHILE THERE^S LIFE 


93 


hardly, though his smooth-shaven face had reddened — you 
must acknowledge that you agreed to everything; that 
there’s hardly a single suggestion in that deed which did 
not emanate from you yourself.” 

“ Perhaps I didn’t think sufficiently ; realize ” began 

D’Eath, then broke off. How was it possible to explain 
that a mere combination of scents and sounds had changed 
his' entire outlook — though was it altogether that? For 
days past he had been conscious of a sensation of yearning, 
of vague melancholy. 

Oh, realize ! ” said George, and for the first time there 
was the hint of a sneer in his voice. When he realized 
anything he did so at once ; what he did not realize did not 
exist so far as he was concerned. 

Young Brown was tapping on the table, very gently, 
with the handle of his pen. 

'' Silly idiot ! ” thought D’Eath, with a sudden spurt of 
fierce irritation. 

A moment before Mary had risen from her chair, stood 
hesitating ; now she made a definite move. ‘‘ I think — 
don’t you think — ^perhaps I’d better tell James — Barnett — 
counter-order the sandwiches ! ” 

But I’m going by the twelve-ten train ; there’s no rea- 
son ” began D’Eath, then broke off. How silly, how 

futile and feeble it all was. And how like a sheep Mary 
looked, hanging there with her mouth a little open, her hand 
on the door. 

He heard her murmur something like I thought, as 

everything seemed so unsettled ” with what might have 

been gentle malice; but he took no notice of her, turned 
to George, faced him squarely. ‘‘You hold me to it 
then ? ” 

“ There is no question of holding,” answered the younger 
man smoothly ; “ the whole thing was settled, you practically 
gave your word.” 


94 


WHILE THERE^S LIFE 


“ Oh, well,” cried D’Eath, and moving to the table 
took the pen from young Brown’s fingers, then turned and 
looked round at them all. Once more his old sense of the 
oddness of life, the whimsicality of human nature came to 
his rescue, with the realization that what he was going to 
sign was no ratification of peace, but a declaration of war — 
with he himself out of it. 

“ I warn you — ^there’s something I’ve seen advertised as 
‘ the little oil bath.’ ” The corners of his mouth twitched ; 
nothing mattered. After all, that comedy of the Gadarene 
swine was a serial which ran without ceasing through the 
book of life. “ I’ll sign, but all the same I venture to think 
that you’ll find I had my uses — ‘the little oil bath,’ you 
know.” 

“ But, father, darling, it does seem ” began Mary — 

her forehead was puckered; really she did not know what 
to think. “ When everything’s been settled and all,” she 
went on, then laid an affectionate hand upon her father’s 
shoulder as he leant over the table to sign his name. 


CHAPTER XI 


D'Eath had been scheduled to stay at Brown’s Hotel with 
his daughter. All the D’Eaths stayed at Brown’s, and all 
the Colburns at Morley’s. But on this special occasion 
Hugh D’Eath — always somewhat of a sport from the family 
tree, though so carefully trained and pruned — elected to 
go elsewhere. Perhaps he had taken a dislike to the name 
which carried a memory of that red-gilled, super-efficient 
younger partner of Cleaver, Brown & Son. 

He chose a hotel in Bloomsbury, because he happened 
to read the advertisement of it in his paper on the way up 
to town. A hotel which was the mere fraction of a cycle 
of such places, without individuality, without memory. At 
Brown’s the very hall porter met him with, “ I hope I see 
you well, sir, and Miss D’Eath too ” ; or, “ We had Mr. 
Horace D’Eath ” or Mrs. St. John, staying here last 
week.” 

There were twenty-eight hours yet before the start for 
Nauheim. D’Eath wondered what would happen if he 
went to Cooks’ and asked to have his ticket changed ; stayed 
in London for a few days, just to look about him. After 
all he might never see the dear old place again. 

Of course, it was not, really,, in the least likely that 
he would change his plans at the last moment like this. 
** Everything is arranged.” He had grown so accustomed 
to the phrase that it very nearly mastered him, but not 
quite. 

Saying — Of course. I’m bound to go to-morrow 
now,” he walked through Covent Garden and down the 
Strand, conscious of revolt in every fiber of his being. 

He had not intended to sign that deed; certainly not 
95 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


96 

at the last, perhaps never. After all, it was the whole of 
his past life which he signed away ; dull enough, but all he 
ever had. Well, they had got that now ; surely he was free 
to do what he liked with the remnants which remained over. 

Cooks’ Strand office was still open, and almost before 
he knew what he was doing he had changed his ticket to 
Nauheim for one which would allow him three whole days 
in town; after that — ^the deluge. 

He went to his club, which he seldom used, and there, 
by some odd stroke of fate, encountered old Sir Philip 
Harding, his little pointed mustache dyed a fine glossy 
black, his face with a plumlike bloom from good living. 

“ Hallo ! D’Eath,” he cried. “ Having a frisk, shaking 
a loose leg — eh, what? Let’s dine together and then do a 
music hall.” 

They dined together. ‘‘Nowhere like London; nothing 
like a free bachelor’s life!” said Sir Philip. He chose the 
dinner; all the most pungent, highly flavored dishes, with 
caviare on toast for a savory. “ Skip the joint, eh, old 
chap ? ” he said ; and when D’Eath answered, “ Oh, Lord, 
yes,” laughed knowingly. For to both alike the joint 
symbolized family life; that awful ritual of a Sunday din- 
ner. They drank a bottle of champagne, and a good deal 
of very mellow port for which the club was famous. Then 
they went to the Empire. In between the acts they walked 
about, Harding with his hat on, very curly and at a tilt. 
His goggly eyes were on every side at once, ogling the 
women. He brushed against one, and there were recrimina- 
tions, apologies, reconciliations; an address jotted down in 
the old fellow’s note-book. “ Fine woman that,” he said 
when he joined D’Eath ; “ fine figure, fine understandings, 
fine everything, damn it all I ” 

The woman, a meretricious, peroxidized hussy, in a 
sheath-tight skirt, a waistband and shoulder straps, over- 
shadowed by her big hat like Jonah by his gourd — a hussy 


WHILE THERE^S LIFE 


97 


that no boy in his twenties would have so much as glanced 
at — looked round, waved her hand, and wriggled away; 
moving, with her tight gown, in a way which reminded 
D’Eath of Cowper's hare. 

During the whole of the rest of the performance Hard- 
ing discussed legs; it seemed that there was nothing else 
left to women. He talked of them as Waller, who trained 
an occasional racehorse for Charles, in his stables upon the 
Cotswolds, talked of horses. But Waller's talk was in- 
finitely preferable. At least Waller's mares were used to 
breed from, to produce creatures as fine, as slender-limbed, 
as satin-coated, as sensitive as themselves; to enhance the 
world with beauty. Harding's “ fillies," as he called them, 
were good for nothing save the momentary gratification of 
eyes and senses. 

After the show was over the two men went to the Carlton, 
where they ate devilled bones and drank whiskies and 
sodas. D’Eath grew inexpressibly melancholy. He might 
have been a little drunk, but it is certain that nothing had 
gone to his head. It was all round his heart if anywhere, 
compressing it to an almost unendurable sense of the utter 
futility of everything. 

He had felt dull and out of it at Dene Royal; he was 
more than ever dull and out of it here, with old Harding 
hiccoughing lewd confidences into his ear. He took him- 
self to task, gravely enough. ‘‘ Perhaps it is that I haven't 
had enough," he thought, and touched his glass as a sign 
for the waiter to refill it. After this he felt that he could 
have sat on the ground for the rest of the night ; told “ sad 
stories of the death of kings," poured ashes on his head. 

I don't mind letting you into the know, old chap, 
'cause we're friends ; we're boon companions — eh, what ? " 
Harding was breathing heavily into his ear. “ Look here, 
you can come and see me, see usf He gave a senile chuckle. 
When he was sober Sir Philip was merely a little more 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


98 

than middle-aged ; drunk he was ancient and obscene, like a 
hoary blue-bottle. “Damned if I don’t let you into the 
secret ; show you my little birdie in her nest. Only look 
here, you mind this, you old buck, no sneaking in when 
I’m not there; mind you, no poaching; everything strictly 
preserved. I know what you country fellows are, up in 
town for a night or two on business. By gad! don’t I 
know ? I was like that myself once, and not too many years 
ago either. 224, Swinbourne Mansions, Maida Vale. Got 
that, eh? Hang it all, look here, D’Eath, I tell you what 
I’ll do. You look us up one day next week ‘ to view,’ as the 
house agent fellows say, and if ever I want a little change. 
I’ll give you the first reversion ; damned if I won’t. Come, 
now, that’s an offer — 224, Swinbourne Mansions ; don’t you 
forget it. But mind you, no poaching, no loosing off till 

I say go. For she’s a peach, that’s what she is, a little ” 

Words failed him, and he blew an imaginary kiss. 

By the time they got up to go something more than 
words had failed Harding, and his legs were like those of 
a new-born lamb. It was a mercy Hugh D’Eath remem- 
bered that address, for he found himself obliged to take 
his host home in a taxi, huddled to a heap in one corner, 
looking as though he had been taken down from the peg 
in a pawnshop; his mouth open, his goggle eyes staring 
blankly, with a sort of desperation, straight in front of 
him. 

There were four flights of stairs to be surmounted at 
Swinbourne Mansions. “ Now if that old quack was right 
this will be the end of me, and a good job too ! ” thought 
D’Eath. But though his heart beat painfully, he got his 
man to the top and knocked at the door of number 224. 

It was flung open with that suddenness which suggests 
a pounce, and a woman appeared on the threshold in a 
crumpled, none-too-clean tea-gown: a very mature woman, 
five feet eight at least, and with an immense amount of 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


99 

figure: tousled, canary colored hair, and bags like purses 
beneath her eyes — the “ little birdie ! ” 

Harding toppled a trifle forward from his friend’s grasp, 
and she caught him by the arm. “You swine, you!” she 
said. “ An’ you as swore you’d be home ter supper at 

noine and bring the whisky. See if I don’t ” She broke 

off here, catching D’Eath’s mild eyes, realized that he was 
not the usual obliging and thirsty taxi-driver, and mur- 
mured some apology for her “ friend.” 

Harding, who had fallen back against the wall of the 
tiny ante-room opposite the hall door — Harding of Harding 
Court, with its famous paneled hall, its musicians’ gallery, 
yew hedges — nodded and leered horribly. “ So long, old 
chap! Shown you a bit of life — eh, what?” 

Back at his hotel D’Eath found James, waiting up for 
him with a martyred air; not that James minded being 
late; what he did mind was not knowing that his master 
was going to be late. 

As he moved softly about the room D’Eath sat on the 
edge of the bed and stared at him solemnly; he was a 
fine domestic animal, well-groomed, well-fed, trained to the 
house. But what about the real James at the back of all 
this? 

“James,” he said, “ did you ever see life?” 

“Not that I know of, sir,” answered James primly; 
adding to himself, with a mental wink, “ I don’t think ! ” 
wondering about his master as his master was wondering 
about him; if he were a “bit balmy” — just a master or 
man. 

“ Well, don’t try to see it,” advised D’Eath solemnly. 
« If s— it’s putrid!” 


CHAPTER XII 


All next morning the thought of old Sir Philip was with 
D’Eath. So this was what freedom meant to some people 1 
Liberty, that had been his cry, and in its place what dreary 
license, what a shrew of a woman compared with whom 
old Lady Harding would have appeared almost Greuze- 
like in her beauty and interest. Was this all that there 
was to be gained by an over-late freedom? Deterioration 
of body, mind, taste, almost beyond words? 

Towards twelve o^clock D’Eath went and sat in the 
park watching the people. Now and then he raised his 
hat to some passing acquaintance, but he spoke to no one 
until he heard a voice exclaim, “ Why, if it isn’t Mr. 
D’Eath ! ” and glanced up to see two women standing 
before him smiling — one gaily, the other with studied wist- 
fulness. The gay one, very smart in a pale biscuit-colored 
dress and black hat, fresh and smooth-cheeked, was Lady 
Hester Fielden, daughter of the Soult Range Master of 
hounds ; not long married, more innocent-looking than any 
woman has the right to be, gay, spendthrift, unmoral as 
a wharf rat, or so people said. 

Her red mouth was softly folded, her blue eyes wide 
and appealing, her pale golden hair broke into ripples over 
either ear. 

The other woman, whom she introduced as her friend, 
Mrs. Ian Paulton, was dark and intense, with a sallow 
skin and a drooping brim to her hat; her fine shoulders 
slouched, her rather heavy red lips were folded into an 
enigmatic pout; but she said nothing as D’Eath bowed 
to her, rose from his chair and walked between them up 
the Row towards Rnightsbridge, walked with a swagger, 
shoulders squared'. ', • 


100 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


lOI 


‘‘Well, an’ how’s Mary and Vera, an’ all the rest of 
your little lot ? ” inquired Lady Hester, carelessly ungram- 
matical, bowing right and left, twirling her pale pink sun- 
shade. 

“ Very well, as far as I know.” It seemed to D’Eath 
at the moment as though his family were separated from 
him, not merely by a four hours’ journey, but by aeons: 
that he remembered them but vaguely, as something belong- 
ing to the last generation. 

The unpleasant taste which old Philip Harding had left 
upon his mental palate was gone. The sun felt pleasantly 
warm upon his back, the flower-beds were ablaze, the well- 
dressed women at his side pleased him, titillated his fancy. 
Of a sudden he was almost childishly happy. Usually 
when he walked in the Row it was with one of his rela- 
tions, who had picked up a special friend, was busy talking, 
bent all one way, ignoring him ; leaving him in that unpleas- 
ant position of the third person who does not quite know 
how or where to walk. 

So that’s it, is it ? ” Lady Hester laughed, glancing at 
him sideways. “ You’re out all alone, on the razzle-dazzle, 
eh? How nice.” Her limpid, childish gaze rested upon 
him for a moment with that sort of solemnity which was 
one of her special assets. “ Awfully old, of course,” she 
thought, “ but too awfully good-looking and interesting.” 

“ Will you come and see me — ^let’s have a talk over old 
times ? ” 

D’Eath could remember no old times in common with 
Lady Hester; surrounded by his family she had never 
appeared to notice him. But he knew very well what all 
Vera’s friends had said about her; the bitter complaints 
of her fastness, the way she snatched men away from 
under their very eyes; until at last — ah, well, Fielden was 
hound to marry her! That was what they all said; and 
this was by no means the end of the gossip either. How 


102 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


unkind, unfair, women were to one another! Why, she 
was a mere child, Hebe-like in her fresh bloom. 

Lady Hester laughed, divining his thoughts, sharp as 
a needle. Come, and you shall tell me what people used 
to say about me.’’ 

‘'Oh, that! My dear lady, art is long and time is 
fleeting ! ” 

“ You mean that between what they invented, em- 
broidered, and what they really believed it would fill a 
book.” 

“ Well, perhaps ; but how divinely illustrated,” returned 
D’Eath, with a little bow, all the more charming for its 
hint of a bygone fashion. He was amused with himself, 
with her. Quite possibly she might be a minx, but any- 
thing more gross was out of the question. 

As to Lady Hester, she was delighted with the retort. 
“Well done! That is pretty of you! Did you hear that, 
Angela? He’s really rather doaty, isn’t he?” She half 
turned to her companion, spoke as though D’Eath were not 
there. 

Mrs. Paulton glanced at him sideways, pouted her lips 
a trifle more fully, opened her eyes very wide and dropped 
them again. But she did not speak; if she had been asked 
why, she would have said, with that jaded truth which is 
never frankness, that speech was not her “ stunt.” 

“ You must come and have tea with me. Do come next 
Saturday, any time after four. I’m afraid Freddie may be 
out — ^polo, Ranelagh, you know. But I dare say we can 
manage to amuse ourselves.” For a moment Lady Hester’s 
eyes rested upon D’Eath with a look of deliberate audacity 
and understanding; then she turned to her friend. “ I sup- 
pose you can’t come, Angy ? ” 

“ No, really — ^thanks awfully — too awfully, dreadfully 
busy,” breathed Mrs. Paulton. 

“ She makes birds’-nests,” explained Lady Hester in a 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


103 


quick aside. Most frightfully clever, you know.” Her 
blue eyes were wide, but at the back of them was laughter, 
the hint of an understood joke betwixt herself and D’Eath. 

“ Makes what?” 

** Birds’-nests. She did a what-do-you-call-it’s nest the 
other day, absolutely, exactly, the very thing. You 

know ” she began, then broke oif excitedly — Oh, I 

say, there’s Bobbie Hale. I’ve never had a chance of a 
word with him since his divorce, and I do so want to ask 

him Hold on a moment, there’s good people,” and 

darted off to intercept a young man who was moving 
languidly by them. 

Left to themselves D’Eath and Mrs. Paulton leant over 
the rail together, watching the riders. There seemed to 
be a large preponderance of bright bay and chestnut horses 
out on this particular morning, and their glossy coats, 
dappled with shade, were shining in the sunlight. 

“ Yes, I make birds’-nests,” sighed young Mrs. Paulton 
soulfully. She had folded her arms along the rail and 
gazed down at her gloved hands, smoothing the white 
suede over her long fingers. “ Some day, not yet of course, 
but some day, I really do hope that I shall be able to make 
them better than the birds themselves.” 

“You have your hands, you see.” 

“ Well, they have their beaks, so it’s really quite fair, isn’t 
it? Anyhow, I work frightfully hard. Really, I don’t 
think any of the lower classes realize how hard we do 
work. I’m sure I’m always at it,” she added, with a little 
sigh, a movement of her shoulders as though life were al- 
most too much for her. 

“You’re very fond of birds, then?” Somehow or other 
D’Eath felt himself forced into the position of Mamma in 
Mrs. Markham’s history; there seemed nothing to do but 
ask leading questions upon the subject in hand, conversa- 
tion was impossible. 


104 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


“ Fond of birds ? Oh, dear, no ; they’re so dreadfully 
restless, don’t you know. And I love, adore, repose.” 

Fond of the country then?” 

The country ! Oh, dear, no ; it’s too dreadfully de- 
pressing.” 

“ Then why birds’-nests ? ” 

“ Oh, well, of course, it is an art — and one has to do 
something different, doesn’t one? What an age Hester 
is with that stupid man! After all, pretty well everything 
came out in the papers ; and it wasn’t particularly interest- 
ing — ^very commonplace, I thought. Now, if I had a 
divorce I would like it to be perfectly thrilling. It seems 
a sort of duty to one’s friends, if they stand by you; as, 
of course, they will if the co-respondent isn’t an outsider — 
that’s quite fatal, of course.” 

“ But what does your husband think of — of such theories ? 
Would he be willing to — to co-operate? It seems that a 
divorce is one of the few affairs in life needing a third.” 

“ My husband ? ” Mrs. Paulton raised her fine eyes and 
gazed at him in a hurt sort of way, as though he had been 
guilty of an indecency. “ My husband ! Oh, I don’t know 
what he thinks. I hardly ever see him. I’m so dreadfully 
busy with my nests, and Willy Pyke gets me the grass and 
feathers and things. Ian wouldn’t be the slightest use for 
anything of that sort. He always struck me as being so 
clumsy,” she added slowly, as though trying to remember 
the traits of some complete stranger ; then, “ Oh, Hester, 
darling! I thought you were never coming.” 

My dear, such a lark ! ” Lady Hester seized her friend’s 
arm, squeezed it. Bobbie says that there’s going to be no 
end of a shindy. It’ll all come out that there’s been — 
what do you call the thing? — oh, collusion. Bobbie’s wife 
blabbed. Of course, she thought Captain Sinclair would 
marry her. I told her he wasn’t in the least that sort ; but 
she was always one of those silly women who believe every- 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


105 


thing a man says. Now he’s cooled off she’s afraid she’ll be 
left without anybody; at least, that’s what Bobbie thinks.” 

“ My dear, how wildly interesting ! What’s going to 
happen ? ” 

“ Oh, of course it ’ull put the hat on to the decree being 
made absolute, and Bobbie’s perfectly furious. Sinclair’s 
got pots of money, and there would have been whopping 
damages. What, Mr. D’Eath, not going yet? Oh, but 
won’t you come home to lunch with me? I’m sure I can 
make a corner for you.” 

“ I’m afraid I can’t — not to-day.” 

Oh, well, mind you don’t forget Saturday. I can’t 
tell you how disappointed I should be. And I shan’t ask 
any one else.” Lady Hester was holding the hand which 
he had extended, gazing straight into his eyes with her 
own appealing orbs. “ Then ye can have a nice cozy talk 
together, just us two, eh?” 

As she spoke D’Eath felt an odd, insinuating little touch 
from one finger in the palm of his hand. Could it be that 
Vera and her set were right, after all? But no, not with 
those eyes ! 

Turning out of the park some one hailed D’Eath; it 
was Sir Philip Harding, wonderfully fresh, jauntier than 
ever. “ D’Eath, you dog ! I saw yer ! Well, upon my 
soul, but I am surprised ! ” 

“ May I ask why ? ” D’Eath’s tone was icy, but the 
old man seemed no whit embarrassed by it; he was too 
well accustomed to the innocent airs of the guilty, as he 
would have told you with a wink. “ The people who look 
you so damned full in the face, don’t you know — never 
trust ’em. We used to say that with the natives out in 
India, an’ by God it applies to pretty well all alike, black 
an’ white.” 

“ Playin’ the gay goat with Lady Hester Fielden of all 
people ! At your age, too ! ’Pon my soul, D’Eath, I’m no 


io6 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


prude, no one can say I am, but I do draw the line at that 
sort of a free lance; with her position, an’ all that — poor 
old Kiddington’s position. They talk about us men, but upon 
my soul we have more decency, keep our little affairs sub 
rosa. I know I’d larrup any one of my daughters if I heard 
of her gettin’ herself talked about in the way that girl did, 
even before she married,” he added, roused to a state of 
virtuous indignation, oblivious of the way in which he had 
bemoaned the fact of his deserted family’s peculiar plain- 
ness. “ As to that husband of hers, he’s an ass. Though 
they do say that he’s talking of a divorce at last. The very 
deuce an’ all ’ull be to know who to name as co-respondent 
— or, rather, which. To my certain knowledge there’s 

been ” The old reprobate caught his companion’s arm 

and poured out a string of names. 

D’Eath felt sick as the memory of the girl’s fresh face 
rose up before him. “ By God, Harding, you’re a foul- 
mouthed, foul-minded beast if ever there was one! It 
looks as though you had forgotten what a woman of your 
own class is like. A mere girl like that. You ought to 
be ashamed of yourself.” 

“ Ashamed I Me ? ” Harding gave a snort of indigna- 
tion, then laughed. ‘‘Well, just you wait and see. Per- 
haps Fielden’ll take it into his head to name ’em all — ^there’s 
no knowing what may happen when the worm does turn — 
an’ then we’ll see you in court at the tail o’ the pack. Only 
don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he added; laughed again, 
very knowing, then touched one finger to the curly brim of 
his hat and was lost in the crowd moving westward for 
lunch. 


CHAPTER XIII 


D^Eath lunched alone at his club. 

Luncheon over he felt himself at a loose end. There 
were at least two things which he ought to do: write to 
his family and tell them he was not staying at Brown’s, 
that he did not intend leaving London for a few days ; and 
then go and report to Sir Humphrey. But the very idea 
of putting pen to paper paralyzed him ; even more distaste- 
ful was the thought of the outpourings which his letter 
might evoke. He did not want to hear any of the family 
news; did not want to know what the family thought or 
felt. If ever man wished that he might have started life 
as a foundling, been permitted by fate and inclination to 
remain celibate, that man was Hugh D’Eath at the stage at 
which he was now arrived. For, despite the awful example 
of old Harding, the longing for freedom, the space to 
breathe, was still strong upon him; the very thought that 
nobody knew where he was to be found gave him an ex- 
traordinary sense of elation. As to Sir Humphrey, for 
that day anyhow he would keep clear of him. He did not 
want to be told that he was either worse or better ; he did 
not want to think of himself ; only to swim, for once — at 
last! — with the tide of humanity. 

Still the thought of the specialist did give him an idea. 

There was a man he used to know who had taken a 
practice near Dene Royal for a while, then given it up. 

My teeth aren't made for grazing,” he said ; ” your hill 
grass is too short, too sweet ; as for the people, they always 
remind me of something I once read — a mere couple of 
lines: 

“ ‘ The cattle are grazing, their heads never raising, 

A thousand are feeding like one' 

X07 


io8 


WHILE THERE^S LIFE 


God only knows how many cases of cerebral congestion 
Tve been called to since I came here; you all get blood 
to the head for the want of a little looking up and about 
you. One day I’ll write a medical treatise on the thing.” 

D’Eath laughed at the very memory of the man’s rash, 
rough speech. He thought oddly, and he spoke his thoughts ; 
no wonder that the gentry disliked him for his brusque- 
ness, that the laboring classes distrusted him because of 
his unlikeness to any other doctors whom they had known. 
As to the middle classes, the small lawyers, agents, trades- 
men, he was anathema to them; the very thought of him 
in any one of their genteel sick rooms, with the mahogany 
and crochet-edged covers explained this. But D’Eath had 
always felt attracted towards him. There was something 
large about his very gaucheries; with all his rough ex- 
terior he had known him to be extraordinarily kind, even 
tender. 

Anyhow, it is certain that the neighborhood of Cotting- 
ham was, of all places, that in which Treherne was bound 
to show to the least possible advantage; it smothered him, 
as in its own way it had smothered D’Eath. For there is 
something about the Midlands — in those parts where the 
pulses are unquickened by any special industry, roar of 
machinery — ^that is almost intolerably slow and complacent. 
They have not even the sea, with ships which bring far more 
than their specified cargoes to port — a whiff of adventure, 
of other worlds; possess all the disadvantages of island 
life with none of its quickening come and go of tides. 
Even thus each special county, even in the Midlands, has 
its own special atmosphere, as distinct as certain houses, 
certain rooms; and it was the special placidity of the 
Cottingham people which aggravated Treherne, who de- 
clared that they must have the digestive apparatus of all 
bovine creatures, actually chewed the cud, were in some 
mysterious way spiritual descendants of Nebuchadnezzar. 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


109 


Among every class he found himself out of it, for all 
classes alike were part and parcel of the county. Then 
his clothes were all wrong, and he was never to be seen 
at church — a fatal omission, lending a sinister aspect to 
his undoubted cleverness ; “ A danged sight too clever by 
half,” that’s what some one had said, voicing the general 
opinion. 

Anyhow, he had been a failure, had only stayed a short 
time, then sold a rapidly diminishing practice and returned 
to London. 

He had sent D’Eath his address. “ A dock slum ” was 
what he said : all the same, there’s something of real 
crude life and humanity, and I have quite a decent house. 
If ever you are in London, with an hour or so to spare, 
come and see me.” 

D’Eath still had the address in his note-book; only that 
morning he had happened to notice it. A sudden idea 
came to him. He would not go to Cavendish Square; the 
very thought of the solemn and ornate ante-room to Sir 
Humphrey Spender’s sanctum depressed him. He would 
go down to Wapping instead ; have a talk over things with 
Doctor Treherne; go on the top of a bus and get all the 
fresh air he could. 

He took his bus at Piccadilly Circus. The brilliant 
morning had clouded to a dull, stiflingly hot afternoon. 
Even the flower women drooped palely under their red um- 
brellas, which, with flaunting mockery, appeared to label 
them as part and parcel of the latest Gaiety triumph, The 
Girls of the Harem,” There seemed to be no wind stirring, 
and yet some insidious, secret draught filled the air with 
scraps of straw and splinters of wood pavement, touched 
the cheek with a hot breath. 

One of the flower-sellers climbed D’Eath’s bus and seated 
herself with a vast sigh beside him, her basket-^-qrfipty save 
for a few wilted sweet-peas — upon her knee. 


no 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


As the bus careened down Regent Street they caught a 
little breath of air from the river. “ That’s a bit o’ all 
right, ain’t it ? ” she said. But, my Gawd, what a sweatin’ 
’ot day ! ” 

D’Eath, wedged tightly in between the rail and his 
fellow-passenger, agreed that it was hot, but " very 
pleasant.” 

“ Pleasant ! yer calls it, do yer ? ” said the woman ; then 
with a snort relapsed into silence. It was not until they 
were past the stopping-place in front of Charing Cross 
that she spoke again, and then, as though the words were 
being forced out of her by some overwhelming impulse of 
self-expression, not in the least because she fancied D’Eath 
as an audience, desired his interest or understanding. 

“ Pleasant ! Well, if yer arsts me what I thinks of it 
all it’s a tragedy — a blooming tragedy! What’s the good 
of it? — that’s what I want ter know. It’s like when one 
o’ them there blinkin’ Church Army picnic screams tuk 
us inter the country for a picnic — the free an’ ’appy coun- 
try! — and everywhere as yer wanted ter go it was stuck 
up an ’ow trespassers ’ud be prosecuted. That’s life! If 
yer asks me, that’s my very identical idea o’ life.” She 
took off her hat from a head armor-plated with innumer- 
able curling-pins. “ They do mike yer ’ead ache, there’s 
no mistike abart that ; but a gal don’t not seem half dressed 
wivout ’em,” she said, then sighed again — a gusty sigh. 
“Though what’s the good o’ toffin’ yerself up when there 
ain’t any one to toff yerself up for, that’s what I wants ter 
know?” 

A workman making his way to one of the front seats 
pushed against her basket, tipping it to one side. “ Come 
now, clumsy ! ” she cried. 

The man laughed. “Keep yer ’air on, me duck,” he 
said. 

“Well,” remarked the woman at D’Eath’s side, “if it 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


III 


hain’t a treat to find summun as can speak civil. Sort o’ 
mikes the wheels go round, don’t it ? ” 

D’Eath turned and glanced at her; she was smiling, 
artlessly pleased. He had thought, judging from the gen- 
eral impression of her full figure, that she was a mature 
woman; but now he saw that she was young — five- or 
six-and-twenty at most. A pair of long earrings dangled 
from either ear ; her rosy cheeks were smooth and rounded ; 
she had that look of perfect health, of complete broad- 
bosomed womanliness which, among all the women of Lon- 
don, is the heritage of the coster class alone. With her 
dark eyes, plaited hair drawn in bosses over either ear, 
and brilliantly colored handkerchief crossed above her 
breast, she might well have been a denizen of the warmer- 
blooded South, leaning with folded arms upon some 
window-sill above the Bay of Naples. 

Her work-roughened fingers plucked at the feathers of 
the hat lying atop of her basket, which — with its immense 
ostrich plumes, shading from dark crimson to pale pink 
and flame — must, at one time, have presented a gorgeous 
appearance ; but now it was bedraggled, faded, soiled, while 
even the straw drooped with a dejected air. 

“ ’Tain’t much ter look at, that’s certain,” said the girl, 
*** an’ yet ter think as ’ow it went fur ter breck up as ’appy 
a ’ome as ever was; not as it wouldn’t be ’appier now, by 
a long chalk, if I ’ad the ’andlin’ of it. But, there, you 
can’t not never judge by apperiences. ’Ere ter-day an’ 
gorn ter-morrow, in a manner o’ speakin’,” she added, with 
an almost malicious tweak at the feathers. 

" Come now, things can’t be as bad as all that,” mur- 
mured D’Eath vaguely. 

‘‘ Bad ! That’s all yer knows ! Seems ter me as they 
couldn’t well not be worse. Tike me Davey as there’s 
toimes as I feel loike makin’ an ’ole in the river. No ’un 
ter miss me neither ; no ’un ter say ‘ Poor devil ! so young 


II2 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


an* all ! ’ Fished out on a pole wiv a *ook at the end of 
it. I*ve seen ’em scores o* toimes; seen ’em come ter 
pieces an’ all when the river cops thought as ’ow they’d 
got ’em all cozy; come ter pieces, all along o’ bein’ in that 
there stinkin’ river! Awful! Fair gives yer the ’orrors, 
that’s what it does ! ” 

“ My dear woman ” 

“Well, arter all there’s worse things nor dyin’, an’ one 
o’ them’s livin’. Sime ole livin’ day in day out— livin’ 
wivout a bloke.” Here, it seemed, was the same thought 
as that which influenced the unknown, erring wife of 
Bobbie Hale. “That’s a nice sorter existence fur a lidy 
as is a lidy an’ not a bloomin’ old maid by natchur, nor 
experience neither.” 

“ Is your husband ” — D’Eath hesitated ; he had noticed 
a wedding-ring upon the stumpy third finger hovering with 
disdain over the hat — “ is he ” — again, like the rest of the 
world, he balked at the word — “have you lost your hus- 
band?” 

“ Lorst ! ” His neighbor broke into a laugh, that sud- 
den, frank, disarming laugh with which she had greeted 
the workman’s sally ; there was a dimple in her broad 
cheek; the despondent woman of a moment earlier, with 
all the instinctive theatricality of the born Londoner, was 
gone ; she was girl again, “ tickled to death,” as she 
would have said. “ Lorst ’im ! Did yer ever ’ear the like 
o’ that? Mislide ’im, dropped ’im out, left ’im about! 
Yes, that’s it, left ’im about ! ” Once again she dropped 
to a sudden gloom. “ Left ’im about ter be picked 
up by any ole tart as chose ter come along. An’ me 
left!” 

“He left you? Well, I can’t say much for his taste!” 

“ Get along with yer.” She nudged him, gloom and 
sunshine chasing each other over her face. “ All the same, 
it weren’t ’im as left me. Oh, dear, no; not by a long 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 113 

chalk. I ain’t the sort as gets left; no, thank yer, not 
if I knows it ! ” 

“ Then — I’m afraid I’m frightfully stupid, but I don’t 

understand. If, as you say, you’re alone ” 

Well, I don’t mind tellin’ yer. It was this way, yer 
see. I got sort o’ tired o’ the gentleman as I went off 
wiv, that’s the truf, an’ I ups and tell ’im so. Wot’s the 
good o’ ’avin’ feelings if yer don’t express ’em, so ter 
speak? An’ wot’s the good o’ this ’ere free love as we 
’ears so much about in the threepennies if y’ ain’t free, 
eh? O’ course ’e got ’is shirt out — well, I wouldn’t ’a’ 
blimed ’im fur that; it would ’a’ been a poor sorter com- 
pliment ter me if ’e ’adn’t. But that don’t excuse ’im be- 
’avin’ in the sorter wye as no gentleman ought to be’ave 
t’ any lidy — ’air pulling’ an’ knife play, an’ sech like. The 
fact is ’e wasn’t no class — a blinkin’ furriner — Hitalian, 
that’s wot ’e wos, an’ not one as I’d as much as looked 
at when I was single. Now if yer’d seen my Alf ! ’E wos 
a bit of all right, ’e wos. None of yer ’alf bakes about 
Alf.” 

“ Yet you left ’im? ” D’Eath was profoundly interested. 

“Well, I left ’im, cause why; I was tired o’ jest bein’ 
married. An’ I left that there Hitalian — catch me cookin’ 
’is nasty white worms fur ’im after ’e threatened me wiv 
a knife! An’ I left the gentleman as I went wiv arter 
that. Scene shifter, ’e was, at the Old Vic. Not as there 
was nothin’ out o’ the wye wrong wiv ’im. Only I didn’t 
like ’im, see? — ^not after a trial, so ter speak. Look ’ere 
now, if yer don’t like another lidy yer can put hup wiv 
’er, but if yer don’t like a bloke — more particular when 
you’ve once thought yer did like ’im something special 
— there’s an end of ’im, once for all — a clean wipe out. 
See wot I mean? Folks do say it’s better ter be born 
lucky than rich, but wot price if yer neither one nor t’other, 
eh? Arst me another. Wiv Alf now — ^tell yer straight. 


.114 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


I like ’im better nor wotever I did, an’ that’s wot comes 
o’ ’avin’ a little experience. There’s times I’d give a deal 
ter see old Alf again — squint an’ all.” 

‘‘ Have you any children ? ” 

“ One, but I lost ’im — pneumony.” She turned her 
head a little to one side and spoke dryly. ** Clever little 
devil, ’e wos, though I say it as shouldn’t. Put me clean 
off it did when I lost ’im. Well, Alf, ’e’s clever too; it 
was ’im as ’e got it off, see? Public speaker, Alf is — 
you know. * Down wiv kings an’ members o’ Parleyment 
an’ dooks, an’ sech like,’ sorter lay. Never not ’eard ’is 
like, I ’aven’t — more particular when ’e’d ’ad a extry 
glass.” She paused, then added sadly, “ An’ never shall 
agin, I s’pose. Not as the king ever done Alf no ’arm, 
not as far as I could see. If any one ever done ’im ’arm 
it was me. But if a bloke speaks in public — orange boxes 
— ’Yde Park — you know — ’e’s jest got ter speak agin 
some one, ’asn’t ’e? Stands ter reason. Else nobody 
wouldn’t not listen to ’im, would they?” 

By this time the bus had drawn up at the side of the 
Royal Exchange. 

‘‘I’m afraid I shall have to change here,” remarked 
D’Eath reluctantly. 

“ Where are yer goin’ ? ” 

“ Wapping.” 

“Wappin’. Right y’are; Tower Bridge bus, that’s wot 
you want. I go t’ Liverpool Street, I do — an’ then on 
Bethnal Green way.” 

D’Eath rose from his seat, then a sudden thought struck 
him. He and this girl were both lonely. 

“ Supposing you’ve got half an hour to spare, why not 
get off here and let us have a cup of tea together,” he 
suggested. 

Her face was alight in a moment, belying her drawled, 
“ Well, I don’t mind if I do.” 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


115 

It was easy enough to find a quiet cafe at that time of 
day, and they sat down together, either side of a marble- 
topped table, across which she glanced at D’Eath with the 
bright, eager eyes of a hungry dog: a little uncertain, but 
eminently friendly. “This is a bit o’ all right, ain’t it? 
Yours truly an’ a toff. Good thing I’m a married woman, 
or there ain’t no knowin’ wot might be gettin’ inter the 
papers. What ’ull we ’ave ? ” 

“ You must order,” said D’Eath, “ anything you like.” 

“ Plain, I reckon, after yer luncheons an’ all ? ” There 
was a dubious drag in her tone, as of hope against hope. 
From the top of a bus she had often seen “ the toffs ” at 
their lunch in the clubs — “ a swellin’ o’ ’emselves out,” as 
she put it. 

“ Plain ; rather not ! ” D’Eath had no idea of the 
alternative, but he risked it; in a mood for the flamboyant, 
the unexpected. 

“Wot ’ull it be then?” 

“ What you like, as much as you like ; it’s your party.” 

“ Lor ! ” said the girl, and grinned, “ yer don’t not ’alf 
know wot yer lettin’ yerself in for! The things they ’as, 
entrays an’ extrays, an’ all.” She pored with knit brows 
over the menu. “ I didn’t not ’ave only a cup o’ tea an’ 
a bit o’ bread an’ cheese for me brekfus’; that wos at 
three a.m. ; an’ nuffin’ since then, barrin’ a cup o’ thick 
an’ a pavin’ stone somewhere about eight on me wye from 
the market,” she remarked. And then, after another 
anxious pause: “Wotcher say ter sausage an’ mash an’ 
a nice cup o’ tea for a start; then a jam tart or two ter 
finish off on ? ” 

“ Nothing could be better,” agreed D’Eath heroically ; 
then drew a breath of relief as a blind beggar with a 
half -starved dog came in and sat down at the table next 
to him. 

Happily it was a voracious dog, with an immense stretch 


ii6 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


of jaw, and took the plumpest sausages at a gulp. But, 
all the same, it was useless for D’Eath to imagine himself 
unobserved. The flower-girl’s eyes slid past him again and 
again in a desperate effort to remember her manners and 
not see what she was obviously intended not to see. But 
with the first jam tart — strawberry at that — it seemed as 
though things had got beyond bearing. 

“ It ’ud ’a’ bin cheaper ter give the old josser tuppence 
fur dog’s meat, an’ ’a’ done wiv it,” she remarked, with 
painful mildness. Besides, it ain’t never no good ter 
get quarreling wiv yer vittles, even if yer do ’appen ter 
be in love. It only turns the stummick, an’ if yer stum- 
mick’s turned there don’t seem nothing left in life ter mike 
any sorter song an’ dance about.” 

She herself ate heartily, explaining how her day had 
begun in Covent Garden soon after dawn. 

“ It’s all very well for them as ain’t never bin used 
ter nuffln’ settled,” she added. “ But fur a gal as ’as ’ad 
’er own ’ome, chiffonier an’ sofa an’ all, an’ the milkman 
callin’ regular, it’s ’Ell, that’s wot it is.” She leaned for- 
ward with both arms on the table, and turned her empty 
cup round and round, observing the dregs, with that sort 
of desperation which seems to lie at the back of the 
buoyant, boisterous youth of so many women of the people. 
“ If it comes ter that, everyfing’s ’Ell. Life’s ’Ell, an’ 
peggin’ out don’t seem no great shakes from wot them 
there parson lot tells us — no bills fur the wood an’ coal 
as is used fur warmin’ yer, that’s about all there is to it. 
Livin’ an’ dead, jest the sime old ‘ you.’ ” 

A look as old as the pyramids was on her face; for 
the time being life held no comfort, death no hope. Her 
mouth had dropped into that sullen shape which comes so 
easily to the uneducated and emotional when they are not 
actually smiling ; for the moment she was almost amazingly 
like Mrs. Ian Paulton. 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


117 

Then she glanced sideways at the waitress, who was 
staring curiously. “ Gawdblimey, if I ’ad a fice like that 
I’d let it out on ’ire as a drop scene, else I’d try turnin’ it 
inside out through the mouth. There’s no knowin’, it 
might look better that way, an’ any’ow, it couldn’t not look 
worse.” 

This audibly expressed opinion seemed to relieve her 
feelings, and she poured herself out another cup of tea, 
though still with a brooding air. 

Look here.” D’Eath leaned over the table and touched 
the back of her rough hand coaxingly. “ Why not patch 
things up; go back to your husband?” 

“You’ve ’it it there, ole dear. Why not? Oh, yus, 
why not ? ” 

“ I’m sure he’d be very glad to have you.” 

“Glad t’ ’ave me! You take yer oath! But the fact 
is, it ain’t all so simple as it might seem ter be — at first 
sight, any’ow.” Her gaze met D’Eath’s with an air of 
limpid candor. It was evident that if she were concerned 
over any special complication, she was conscious of no 
qualms of conscience, doubts as to the propriety of her 
own conduct. “ Don’t yer see, ducky, there’s the other 
lidy ter be considered, an’ a girl’s got ter play fair.” 

“Oh, there’s another lady, is there? A friend of — • 


“Well, wotcher expect?” She tossed her head, spoke 
hotly, as though resenting any implied criticism of her 
one-time mate. “ ’Tain’t likely as my Alf could get ’is 
own meals, an’ keep the plice clean, an’ do ’is own job, 
is it? It’s only them there slackers as is any good messin’ 
roun’ th’ ’ouse doin’ a woman’s work. An’, wotever Alf 
might be, ’e weren’t no slacker; alius in steddy work, ’e 
wos, ever since I first knowed ’im. If ’e ’adn’t been so 
steddy ’e’d ’ave ’ad more time ter see ter me. An’ I 
would ’a’ ’ad more fun an’ less money. There ain’t nuffiln’ 


n8 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


that don’t cut both ways, in a manner o’ speakin’. As fur 
the lidy, if ’e ’ad been a toff, I s’pose ’e’d ’ave ’ad a lidy 
’ousekeeper an’ gone out fur ’is pleasure. But wot price 
a lidy ’ousekeeper wiv only two rooms? Arst me another. 
Not as ’e’d ever fancy ’er as ’e fancied me — fair wild 
about me, ’e wos. An’ ’er wiv no more figger than a 
kipper — boxed too tight, too. Oh, yus, I saw ’er. ’Cause 
why; I went outer my way ter see ’er, didn’t I? But that 
ain’t all neither; it’s that there new kid, poor little devil, 
as ’elps ter mix things up more comicaller than ever they 
wos before. Now, if she an’ Alf ’adn’t gone an’ ’ad that 
there kid ” 

She put her hand to her mouth and held it tight, like 
a child determined not to cry. Her black eyes were wide 
open and unblinking. As a large tear rolled down one 
cheek she put out her tongue and licked it shamefacedly 
from sight. 

‘‘ A blinkin’ cold in me ’ead ” she began ; then, “ No, 

seem ter be cryin’, don’t I? Good Lord! I don’t know 
wot’s cornin’ ter me. More tea, eh?” She filled up the 
teapot with a lavish hand, so that the pale liquid over- 
flowed the spout and ran in a pool across the table, while 
she sat and stared at it somberly, unseeing; then broke out 
again with sudden passion: 

“ It’s a blimed ugly kid, anyway ! ” 

She dashed one hand across her eyes, propped her 
elbows on the table, her chin on her clasped hands, and 
stared fiercely down the long empty room at the little 
group of waitresses who stood talking round the cashier’s 
desk. And it is forever thus. When a woman has been 
hurt, or hurt herself, it is the smug, prosperous members 
of her own sex she resents, not the men, who are more 
often than not responsible. 

She had no feeling of rancor, or so it seemed, for the 
woman who had taken her place ; she would have her hands 


WHILE THERE'S LIFE 


119 

full enough with Alf and the kid ; she and “ the Kipper,” 
they were both taking their chances. It was the spotless 
attire, the plump self-sufficiency of these others which 
raised her ire. As to herself 

‘'WotcherVe put inter yer mouf yer bound ter chew, 
an' wot yer've chewed yer bound ter swallow, if yerVe 
got any manners about yer.” That was her philosophy 
of life as she propounded it to D'Eath at their next meet- 
ing. But for all that her fierce cry — It's a blimed ugly 
kid ! ” — had revealed more than she knew. 

There was a moment's silence between them. Then she 
broke out again, with a restless movement like some wild 
animal. I only wish as I'd never seen the blinkin' 'at. 
I only wish that them there feathers 'adn't never not 
been plucked from off of the blinkin' fowl as growed 
'em.” 

‘‘ Look here,” said D'Eath, “ why not tell me all about 
it from the very beginning. Sometimes it helps just to tell 
things, and sometimes two people can puzzle out a difficulty 
better than one.” 

“Two 'eads better nor one, eh, though one is a calf's?” 
she flashed back at him, with one of her wide smiles. 
“Well, I reckon you've 'ad yer troubles, same as me. 
Love, an’ not knowin' wotcher want, eh? — that's at the 
bottom o' most o' 'em. Folks dyin' — now that's wot I 
calls a sittin' still sorter trouble; yer can't do nuffin' there. 
But love! That's a ragin' up an' down, no rest no way, 
like the toof-ache or belly-ache. Yer lays onter the pain 
ter ease it, an' all the time yer don't know wot the devil 
you'll be after next. Wotcher' ve got yer don't want, an' 
wotcher want yer don't get. I'll bet me boots that's wot's 
wrong wiv you likewise, ole dear,” she added, eyeing 
D'Eath with sympathy, “else you wouldn't not 'ave that 
understandin' way about yer ” 

“ Come now,” said D'Eath, “ consider my gray hairs. I 


120 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


think you may take it for granted that Fve done with all 
that sort of thing.” 

“ Not you. Look ’ere, tell yer strite, I ’ad an old great- 
granny as was close on ninety-five when she died. An’ 
jest the identical day ’fore she popped off I was arstin’ 
’er when a woman got sorter past failin’ in love. Wotcher 
think she says ? ‘ Yer must arst sum’un older nor me, 

my ducky.’ A real ’ot ’un, she was; a regular chronic 
an’ no mistike ; an’ years an’ years an’ donkey’s years older 
nor wot you are. I don’t call you old; I calls yer just 
nice.” 

Something warm, long unknown, crept over D’Eath’s 
face; and the girl gave a crow of laughter, put up her 
hands as though to warm them. “ Blushin’ — well, I never ! 
Blushin’ like a bloomin’ kid ! ” 

D’Eath gave an embarrassed laugh. “ Come now. I’m 
a very dull subject of conversation. I want you to tell 


“ Tell yer wot ? ” 

“Well, what has it all got to do with the hat?” He 
spoke eagerly, was conscious of a youthful, an enthralling 
interest and curiosity which did indeed make him feel like 
a kid. 

The girl glanced at her headgear, drooping upon a peg, 
where the waitress — tweaking it from off the table — ^had 
hung it with a gesture of supreme contempt. 

“If ever that stuck-up piece ’ad as much as a shop- 
walker after ’er it’s as much as she’s ever ’ad,” the 
flower-seller had remarked; then added, “An’ that ’at! 
Lordy, the tales as it could tell! I’ve lived, an’ that’s a 
fact ! ” 

There was the conscious pride of splendid tragedy in 
her brooding glance, her scorn for the untouched air of 
the waitress. 

“ It was that there ’at as started the ’ole thing,” she 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 121 

went on. “ Yer see, I’d sorter got inter the ’abit o’ bein’ 
married. Alf was steddy, an’ I was steddy, an’ then 
there was the kid. Lord bless yer soul, I’d more nor ’alf 
forgotten as there was any sorter world beyond that 
there blinkin’ kitchen sink an’ bed, wiv Alf a-snorin’ along- 
side o’ me. If I’d a taken things easier it ’ud a bin better. 
But I wasn’t not made that way, an’ I took ter bein’ 
married same way as I took the measles, the ’ole ’og — 
you know — spotted from ’ead ter foot, in a manner 0’ 
speakin’. Why, I tell yer strite, when I went up ter the 
top o’ the buildin’ ter do me bit o’ washing a Thursdays 
— which was my day, an’ not ter be altered or the world 
’ud fall down acause ’o the other ladies in the buildin’ 
a-takin’ their turns — it was an event, that’s wot it was! 
An’ that ’ull tell yer. I never not went to a theayter, an’ 
I never not went ter a pitcher pallus neither. I was that 
vicious set on stayin’ at ’ome as it ’ud fair giv yer the 
miserables ter think of. It weren’t ’ealthy, not no ways, 
it weren’t. I’d be different ter that if I went back now. 
All work an’ no play makes Jack a dull boy; an’ there’s 
’alf -time in marriage same as there is in any other ole 
thing. But, strite, that’s ’ow I was until I went an’ put 
inter a raffle as a Jew bloke down our street was gettin’ 
up fur a ’at, see? An’ won it. There’s the blinkin’ ’at” 
— she gave a jerk of her thumb in the direction of the 
bedraggled object hanging upon the peg — “an’ ’ere’s me.” 

There was a moment’s pause; then she touched her 
broad bosom and repeated again, “ ’Ere’s me I ” as though 
with a sort of wonder. “ An’ another lidy a-sharin’ my 
Alf’s bed an’ board. Not as ’ow it’s much o’ a bed, that 
lumpy ! I was alius sayin’ as ’ow I’d take it ter pieces an’ 
give the flock a real good teasin’ up, but I never not did 
it, an’ I’m glad now. Any’ow, there’ll be room fur ’im 
an’ ’er — an’ the lumps. ’Er wiv a figger like a kipper — 
an’ a four-a-penny kipper at that. There was a furrin 


122 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


gentleman lived down our street said as ’ow ’e couldn’t 
do wiv English ladies, ’cause ’e never knowed their backs 
from their fronts. Yus ” — this in answer to D’Eath’s 
glance of inquiry — ** it was the Hitalian, yer’ve ’it it there. 
An’ in the end it was me as couldn’t do wiv *im. So ’e 
was nicely ’ad, ’e was — done to a turn 1 ” 

“ But what had the hat to do with it all ? ” 

Well, yer see, it was like this. A lidy friend arst me 
ter go ter a darnse, an’ I went, ’cause there didn’t not 
seem ter be any other chance o’ showin’ that I’d got an 
’at, wiv the shops in the next street, so ter speak. An’ 
then chaps got talkin’ ter me, payin’ me compliments an’ 
sech like, all very free an" easy an’ pleasant. An’ — 
‘ ’Ere’s ole life back agin ! ’ Says I. An’ I went ter the 
’alls wiv one, an’ ter the pitchers wiv another, an’ ter one 
’op an’ another. An’ I found out as yer weren’t not, so 
ter speak, branded for life acause yer was married, so long 
as yer’d kep’ yer looks an’ yer figger. Then Alf ’e started 
talkin’ nasty, an’ there was words; an’ one thing leadin’ 
ter another, till one fine evening out I marches, ’at an’ 
all. Gawd, wot a world! I didn’t not never think nor 
plan ter do it. It came over me all suddenlike — my birfday 
an’ all. But, look ’ere, this ’ull tell yer. Wotcher think 
Alf ’ad gorn an’ guv me fur a birfday present that very 
day? A tin o’ knife-powder! ’Cause why? ’Cause I 
was such * dead nuts on keepin’ things all bright an’ shinin’ ’ 
— leastways, that’s wot ’e ses, wiv ’is silly smile. An’ 
there’s no bloomin’ doubt about it, ’e ’as a silly smile when 
’e sets out ter be clever. Not that ’e meant ter be clever 
then. It weren’t not that. Though Gawd only knows wot 
’e did mean! Gawd only knows wot men ever do mean! 
’Owever, it settled ’is ’ash — ’ot an’ all, it did! A tin o’ 
knife-powder! An’ that there Hitalian givin’ me a brooch 
as looked the dead spit o’ real gold — near as no matter, 
anyway.” 


WHILE THERE^S LIFE 


123 


She paused, then flung her hands palm upwards upon 
the table in a curiously un-English gesture. “ But Gawd 
bless yer 'eart, things ain’t all wot they looks, not by a 
long chalk! An’ so I found the fust time as ever I took 
the darned thing roun’ ter me uncle. If I’d ’a’ known 
as ’ow that chap peddled in jewelery, I wouldn’t never 
’ave set no store by it, nor by ’im neither. For I ain’t 
got no belief in people as gives away wot it’s their business 
ter sell. But, there, I didn’t know much of ’im nor ’is 
ways then. It’s wot I thought ’e might be — see? — as took 
me, furrin ways an’ all. If I ’adn’t got it inter me ’ead 
as ’e was somefing out of the common I wouldn’t ’ave 
gom off wiv ’im, that’s a cert! After that — well, if you'd 
seen the muck as ’e expected a girl ter live upon — not 
much o’ that neither: three jumps at the pantry door an’ 
a glass o’ cold water. Well, I s’pose as I’d better be 
movin’. Can’t stay ’ere yappin* all day, an’ the best o’ 
friends must part, as the flea said ter the dead tyke.” 

She rose, sighing, as she spoke and pinned on that 
emblem of tragedy which had been a hat. “ I ain’t got 
no address ’cause I dosses at the Salvation Army shelter, 
see? A lidies’ club, gents not admitted! But if ever y’ 
’ave a fancy ter come along t’ O’Leary’s stall in Covent 
Garden, ’tween four an’ eight any mornin’, an’ arsts fur 
’Rene Phillips, you’ll find yours truly. On at shellin’ peas 
or some sech silly game as adds ter the leisure moments 
o’ the slaveys o* the upper classes.” 


CHAPTER XIV 


It was past five by the time D’Eath turned aside from 
seeing his new friend off on her bus ; stood a while — with 
a wilted bunch of sweet peas in his button-hole — wondering 
whether it were too late to go and see Treherne that 
evening, whether he lived or merely had a consulting- 
room at the Wapping address; and finally — after being 
jostled from side to side by an impatient and contemptuous 
crowd — arrived at the conclusion that, as he had come so 
far, he might as well go on, and mounted the steps of the 
first Tower Bridge bus which came his way. 

It had been an odd day. He reviewed the morning — 
Lady Hester and her decadent friend in the Row, old Philip 
Harding; the dull lunch at the club, where the number of 
arid, bald heads and expressionless faces depressed him 
almost beyond words. He himself had few vanities, but 
his thick gray hair was among the number. To his mind 
there was something indecent in a perfectly bald cranium, 
in the insolent assumption of the owner that even so he 
might be an ornament to society. If elderly males would 
only have their coats of arms emblazoned on the shining 
surface, even dye it some cheerful color as the Russians 
dye their Easter eggs, he had a feeling that it might add 
to the gaiety of nations. He remembered mentioning this 
idea to his sister Caroline, and the puzzled way in which 
she had looked at him, objected But, my dear Hugh, it 
really doesn’t matter with men.” For she belonged to that 
age when men were regarded as the licensed transgressors 
of most laws of beauty and decency. There were, of 
course, certain things which even they might not do; but 
on the whole the censure withheld from them went to 


124 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


125 


weigh down the scales against the opposite sex, left to 
preserve unaided the purity of British ideals and family 
life. 

What a relief it was to be among people whose 
standards were an unknown quantity; as unexpected as 
those of the flower-girl with her superb disregard of 
morality. 

In this lay the difference between her type and that 
of Lady Hester and her friends, that mysterious, intriguing 
Bobbie Hale, for instance. Here D’Eath drew himself up 
sharply. Of course. Lady Hester was perfectly straight, 
the daughter of his lifelong neighbor. But those others, 
if they were immoral it was because they knew it, deliber- 
ately thought to create fresh sensations with vices which 
cried stale fish. ’Rene Phillips, on the contrary, lived 
immorally because it seemed the natural thing to do; had 
no special thought of vice or virtue; just took, frankly 
enough, what offered. If she did not like what she had 
got, that was not because it was wrong, but because she 
had been ‘‘a blinkin’ fool an’ didn’t know wot was wot,” 
or because “ luck ” had queered her pitch. 

D’Eath left his bus at Tower Bridge; from thence, act- 
ing under the instructions of various small boys, he cut 
down some steps to the level of the water; then passed 
along St. Katherine’s Way until he reached the address 
sent to him by Treherne — the Wapping Pier Head. 

The prison-like streets which led to it already showed 
gray, wan with the weariness of a long and arduous day. 
Huge warehouses shut out all view of the river. The 
walls were black with grime, the narrow dim way — 
blocked with horses, drays, men — worked out, as it were, 
in woolly neutral tints. The air was pregnant with the 
scent of spices, of pitch and hemp ; the whple scene 
reminiscent — in appearance and atmosphere — of nothing so 
much as some ancient, frousty piece of tapestry, in which 


126 WHILE TliERE’S LIFE 

the zig-zag of cranes represented an archaic creed of 
lettering. 

Once clear of the actual street, D’Eath found himself 
blocked by a moving bridge over an inlet to the docks, 
before which he was obliged to wait for a good quarter 
of an hour, while it yawned, stretched itself slowly and 
deliberately, then opened and admitted a barge, drawing 
at its stern a long string of satellites, high laden with sawn 
timber. 

The water in the canal was black, with an oily sheen. 
The thick air overlaid everything like a pall, pressing it 
down to a sort of dead flatness, so that the voice of the 
bridge tender, as he called to the men on the barges, 
sounded far away, blankly indifferent. 

The barges themselves — the foremost drawn by a dejected 
horse which paced the narrow cindered way with droop- 
ing head — moved with smooth solemnity; the stacks of 
wood were covered with black tarpaulin. The whole thing 
was like a funeral ; rather a conglomeration, an essence, of 
funerals, long since affecting the very atmosphere. From 
here and there, up and down the river, sounded the mourn- 
ful hoot of sirens. 

Then, suddenly, once the bridge was past, D’Eath came 
to a fine, double row of stately houses, with carved and 
pillared porticoes, beautifully decorated fanlights, at right 
angles and running to the river. The dark houses, with 
the dignified open space between them, the shrubs and 
flagged paths, serving as frame to a wide, unexpected 
stretch of sky and water, alive with mast and funnel, 
broken by trails of foam and waving pennants of smoke. 

It seemed to D’Eath like the Promised Land. The 
whole place, indeed, and the way by which he arrived at 
it, might have well stood for the scene of some second 
Pilgrim’s Progress. 

Treherne’s house was the last to the right, larger, more 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


127 


stately than the others. After some delay the door was 
opened by a man in his shirt-sleeves — ^tall, heavily built, 
and very clean. Doctor Treherne was not at home, but 
was expected back at any minute. The man examined 
D’Eath shrewdly, with no pretense, as he answered his 
question, clearly sizing him up. Then, remarking that he 
might as well come in and wait, he led him through a 
perfectly bare hall, smelling of iodoform, up a wide stair- 
case with dark carved banisters; and opening a door upon 
the first landing, ushered him into a large room, with 
two long narrow windows giving on to the square, and 
an immense rounded bay which actually overhung the 
river, so that one might well shake hands with any 
homeward-bound mariner some half-way up his mast, 
look to have the glass broken by sudden turn of yard 
or jib. 

The room, flooded with late sunshine, was barely fur- 
nished; the carpet, which had probably done service at 
Chingford, was not nearly large enough, and there were 
stretches of bare boards at either end. Somehow that 
carpet, with its apologetic, alien air, was characteristic of 
the room, of the changed life of its owner, of the very 
position of the house, that spacious window leading on to 
the river with its many moods, its manifold cargoes, its 
vivid interests. Here men came and went from every sort 
of port with every sort of cargo; they quarrelled fiercely, 
with knives to help out their words; they swore strange, 
mouth-filling oaths. The policeman whom D’Eath had 
spoken to at the side of the moving bridge told him that 
it was an awful neighborhood, unsafe for any stranger at 
nights. They come outer them back alleyways after sun- 
set for all the world like rats,” he said. ‘‘ The river police 
and us, there’s some strange tales as we could tell; folks 
wouldn’t believe ’alf o’ ’em, all cozy in their beds away 
up West.” 


128 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


There was the broad open life of the river and sea; the 
sailors — Dagoes, Squareheads — black, white, yellow — child- 
like, reckless, superstitious; and on shore that network of 
strange infamies which human depravity forever weaves 
around such places. Above all, there was movement and 
life; every sort of extreme of good and evil, strange, lurid 
histories. That very man who had opened the door to 
him, thought D’Eath; one could only guess at the things 
which he knew, had seen, with those bright little eyes of 
his, sunken so deeply to either side of the battered nose. 
As he came in to say that Nurse Fenton wondered if the 
gentleman might not like a cup of tea, he moved like a 
cat, despite his heavy boots, with curiously delicate and 
deliberate steps. Nurse Fenton must be the fresh-faced 
girl in the white cap and apron who had stepped out of 
one of the lower rooms and across the hall as he en- 
tered. There had been something whimsical in her face; 
she, too, was one of those who, for all her youth, 
understood this Comedy of Errors which we call 
Life. 

He moved to the window and hung out. Tucked in 
beneath it was a tiny strip of garden showing a few sparse 
nasturtiums and mallows. Then came the river wall, with 
a barge close against it. Farther to the right the open 
end of the square gave on to a narrow pierhead, upon 
which a group of men were unloading oranges from 
another barge. One or two of the frail boxes had broken 
open, and the fruit was heaped in a glowdng pile upon the 
gray causeway, encircled by a little group of wistful chil- 
dren, who were held back by one stout policeman, the blue 
uniform striking the only distinct note in a scene which 
seemed to have been washed in with two colors, a 
grayish-blue and shades of orange; for by now it was 
past seven, and the sun low amid a network of chimneys 
and cranes. 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


129 

A moment later Treherne entered the room, with an 
exclamation of surprise as he realized his visitor. 

“ Mr. D’Eath ! O’Hagan couldn’t make you out ; your 
name did for him. ‘ A sort o’ a furrin bloke,’ that was 
what he said. You, of all people! You and your Mid- 
lands, and ‘ a sort o’ a furrin bloke ! ’ What can have hap- 
pened to you?” He clasped D’Eath’s hand, glancing at 
him keenly, with bright, rather short-sighted eyes. “ By 
Jove, but I’m glad to see you! Come, let’s have a look at 
you ! ” He drew him round facing the window as he 
spoke. ** How are you, eh ? It looks to me as though 
things had begun to wear a bit thin with you. But it was 
always like that. You saw too far, too much for all those 
folks with their heads in a bag.” 

D’Eath laughed. “ I remember your simile. * The cattle 
are grazing,’ etc. Well,, it seems that I’m not even to do 
that now; to be cut off from the little life I ever had and 
just exist — for so long as the fates care to allow me — in a 
German health resort of all places ! ” 

“ Pshaw ! ” Treherne gave a snort. “ That lunacy ! 
It’s a habit, nothing more! You don’t look to me ill — 
organically ill, I mean; just over-finely drawn, restless, on 
the edge of things. What do they say it is ? ” 

“ Heart.” 

“ Heart?” Treherne turned his head, gave him a sharp 
glance. “Tell me about it; what you think of doing; 
where do you think of going. One thing’s certain, 
you’ve had enough grazing. I always had a sort of 
feeling that you would come to the end of it sooner 
or later, that’s why I gave you my address. Tell me all 
about it.” 

He pulled a comfortable arm-chair into the last patch 
of sunshine, and made his visitor sit down; then laid a 
box of cigarettes by his side, and lit a stumpy dark pipe 
for himself. 


130 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


‘‘ Now, out with it ; confession’s good for the soul, and 
I have not the very faintest qualms on the subject of 
poaching another man’s preserves. Tell me everything 
you can.” 

As D’Eath spoke — haltingly at first, then with greater 
ease, touching lightly, whimsically on his family, the way 
they took things — ^the doctor watched him, his heavy head 
with its shock of hair thrust a little forward, drawing 
steadily at his pipe. 

At the end of the recital, with that curiously clumsy 
movement common to him, earning for him the appellation 
of “ that Bear,” he made D’Eath open his coat and shirt 
while he sounded him. O’Hagan, coming in and out 
meanwhile, laying some sort of a meal, took not the 
slightest notice of what was going on. Once the nurse 
opened the door. “ I’m going now. Doctor ; the O’Toole 
child’s stopped bleeding, so I took him home ” — 
“ Adenoids,” interpolated Treherne in an aside to his 
friend — “ and Mrs. Allan’s going on quite nicely. I made 
her comfortable for the night.” 

‘‘ All right,” Treherne had his ear to his stethoscope, 
and did not look up. The young nurse gave D’Eath a 
nod, as though to say, ‘‘No need to worry now, you’re 
in good hands,” and slipped from the room. It seemed 
that at last he had chanced upon a world where fuss of 
any kind, always his pet abhorrence, was non-existent. 

O’Hagan, arranging the knives and forks with immense, 
careful hands, remarked absently: “That there Pilkington 
chap’s been on the booze again ; kicked ’is wife downstairs. 
She cum round ter ’ave ’er eye sewed up, but I said as 
’ow you was out an’ likely ter remain out — ’er darnation 
eye ! ” He raised the salt-cellar and flattened the contents 
of it carefully with a large palm. “ The skipper o’ the 
Rosie Lome ’as gone an’ ’ad a stiff ’un shipped aboard 
o’ ’im by the crimps in place o’ a drunk; the Owd Man 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


131 

wouldn’t never not ’a’ found it out — fur they put ’im 
straight inter ’is bunk — if it ’adn’t bin as ’ow the rest o* 
the crew was too boozed ter get the anchor catted, an’ 
the mate went in among them with a belayin’ pin. Skipper 
cum along ’ere about three, wantin’ you; but I says as 
’ow you ’adn’t got time fur stiff ’uns, an’ it was the 
coroner as they should be arter.” He took up a spoon, 
gazed at it anxiously, then lifted a corner of the table- 
cloth and gave it an extra polish. “ That there wife o’ 
’Igginson’s ’as gone an’ ’ad triplets. They cum round 
’ere fur you. But as it wus all over I didn’t see as ’ow 
you wus wanted. If a woman can ’ave triplets, she can 
get over ’avin ’em widout wastin’ yer toime — or so it 
seems ter me,” he added; stood for a moment with his 
immense hands poised above the table, then murmured 
something about fetchin’ th’ beer,” and slid from the 
room. 

‘‘ Sir Humphrey’s a great man,” said Treherne at last, 
straightening himself, ‘‘ and I don’t in the least expect that 
he’s ever even heard of my existence; but for all that 
I’d take my davy there’s nothing organically wrong with 
that heart of yours, D’Eath. It seems to me that it’s 
nothing but what the layman calls a tired heart ” ; there’s 
certainly no cardiac valvular weakness. The beats are a 
very little irregular — a trifle intermittent, but that might 
mean nothing more than nervous dyspepsia. Do up your 
things and get back into that comfortable chair. O’Hagan 
will be here in a jiffy with the drinks. A pint of beer 
for each of us ; he’s sworn off it until after seven, and then 
he drinks it in here with me.” 

** Conversion ? ” 

“ Lord, no ! A strained heart — done for him as far as 
his profession goes — and some pretty severe head injuries 
that would make any sort of heavy drinking fatal. A 
heavyweight prizefighter was O’Hagan — ^the ‘ Wapping 


132 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


Wonder/ that’s what they used to call him. He’s been 
pretty well all over the world, that chap; stood up against 
pretty well every one worth fighting of his own weight. 
But he’s got to go slow now unless he wants to peg out. 
He’s a queer chap, for all his size; he has the deftest 
hands, the lightest step of any man I ever met, and tender- 
hearted! I run a sort of clinic, you know, with Nurse 
Fenton and another woman to help me, and I shall never 
forget going into the room downstairs one day and finding 
O’Hagan before the fire in a flannel apron washing a baby.” 

You must have an immensely interesting life down 
here,” remarked D’Eath. His voice dragged flatly; quite 
suddenly he had become conscious of that sense of de- 
vastating fatigue — that fatigue from which a man might 
well, and thankfully, die — which had so often assailed him 
at Dene Royal. It had been a wonderful day. But after 
all, he was outside of it; it had nothing to do with him. 
He just brushed the lives of all these people ; but he meant 
nothing to them. He was going to Nauheim ; he was going 
to die. He never had done anything; he never would do 
anything — and in a few months, if he lived, he would be 
fifty-three. 

It struck him that his life had been like some dull geo- 
metrical drawing — done with compass and ruler, tidily 
enough, on a dull gray slate — which some infernal or 
celestial, in any case tyrannical, schoolmaster had smeared 
over with a wet sponge ; not quite annihilating it, but rob- 
bing it of its one virtue of order and neatness, so that 
there was, in effect, nothing left. 

Then O’Hagan came in with the beer — drinking down 
his own portion in one long, solemn draught — and tackling 
his supper, D’Eath began to feel better. But even when 
he had laid down his knife and fork, emptied his tankard, 
his face showed something of that wistful air of an un- 
wanted child, which had so often touched Treherne in the 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


133 


old days. “ He has the look of some one who has been 
among ‘ the little people,’ ” he had once told a friend of 
his, describing the squire of Dene Royal. 

“ I don’t see why the devil you should go to Nauheim, 
or anywhere else where you don’t want to go,” he broke 
out now, ramming the tobacco into his pipe with his little 
finger. 

'‘You don’t think it matters; you don’t think it’s neces- 
sary — that it would make any difference? Does that mean 
that you feel there’s nothing really wrong? ” 

" Oh, I don’t mean that there’s nothing wrong, by any 
manner of means. There’s a great deal that’s wrong: 
your vitality, your powers of resistance have pretty well 
run out. But it seems to me that what you want more 
than anything else is not a course of German waters, but 
happiness, interest in life. That you’ve got pot-bound, 
as the gardeners say. An’ you know it, too, which very 
few of us do. Nauheim’s all right in its way; a patient 
of mine’s going there in a couple of days, but only because 
one must send him to some place where he’ll be forced 
into considering his health — can’t possibly do any work. 
His life has been too full, yours too empty, there’s the 
difference.” 

" Oh, well, I’m bound to go now— everything’s settled. 
As a matter of fact. I’m supposed to have started already.” 

" I don’t see how that’s got anything to do with it,” 
remarked Treherne, with the rough obstinacy which had 
made him so unpopular among patients who like a physician 
to take their own view of their own case. "Why don’t 
you do just whatever you feel inclined to do? I tell you 
honestly there is a weakness, and it won’t be helped by 
forcing yourself to anything; I’m dead certain of that. 
Inclination is a subtle sort of thing. It may be moral at 
times to go against it, but it’s seldom healthy — not natural 
for one thing — more particularly for a man who is tern- 


134 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


porarily on the down grade. It wears him as it wears any 
sort of machine to clap the brakes on too often — keep ’em 
going.” 

“ But, Treherne, look here ; you know what people like 
mine are, the sort of outcry there’ll be if I tell them that 
I’ve changed my mind at the last moment. And then — 
to go back to Dene Royal in disgrace, as it were! How 
horribly they would resent — I hate — it. No, old chap; it 
can’t be done. I dare say there’s not much wrong. To-day 
— well. I’ve been on the go all day and felt topping. But 
it’s come to this: I’ve got to float with the stream. You 
say the same thing yourself.” 

“ But what stream — a stream of their evolving or your 
own?” Treherne leaned forward, and went on, emphasiz- 
ing his words with the pipe which he held in his hand. 
** What I want to know is this. Why the devil should you 
tell them anything? It seems to me that they’ve got all 
they can ever want out of you. Why should you go back 
to Dene Royal, where they will all expect you into dying ” 
— D’Eath started at the words, with a sudden vivid memory 
of Susie’s flushed, scornful face — dying of heart disease ? 
Oh, I know what they are, these good people; they and 
their invalids — close culturing death! Every impulse of 
life nipped in the bud, with ‘Oh, my dearest, but you 
know you mustn’t venture on that ! ’ The wrapping of 
you up and away ! Why not stay on in London for a while 
at least — try what an altogether fresh atmosphere will do 
for you? Why not — by Gad, why not stay on here and 

help me with my work? O’Hagan will Oh, is that 

you, O’Hagan?” he broke off suddenly, as the door opened 
and a vast, noiseless figure moved towards them. 

“Would I be lightin’ up? There’s a man ’ere as ’as 
’ad ’is thumb tuk off by one o’ the sliding gangways at 
Black Eagle Wharf.” O’Hagan’s tone was casual; they 
could see his figure bend sideways in the gloom as he 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


135 


struck a match upon the seat of his pants; then came a 
faint spurt of light which he held to the gas-jet, adjusting 
it carefully, his pipe in one corner of his mouth. Some 
chewed ’baccy, I told ’ii;n; that’s the thing ter stop the 
bleedin’ — it was a nigger in Santa Rosalie as put me up 
ter that. But this ’ere chap won’t not listen ter reason 
— wants ter see you. Best draw the curtains, eh. Doctor? 
That light shines sorter orkerd on the river ; the pilots ain’t 
not likin’ it.” 

** Is the man waiting?” inquired Treherne. 

Yus ; though there’s nuffin’ wot you can do, an’ so 
I tells im.” 

“ I’m not so sure about that ; the thumb might be sewed 
on, you know, O’Hagan.” Treherne rose, knocking the 
ashes from his pipe as he spoke. 

“ Catch the dog first,” retorted O’Hagan nonchalantly. 

^‘What dog?” 

“ Why, the dog as ate it afore ever ’e ’ad the ’orse sense 
ter pick it hup. If the gennelman’s stayin’ the night I’ll 
’ave ter be borrorin’ a sheet from ’is Riverence.” 

D’Eath was not staying the night. There was James, 
who was more or less responsible, to think of. “ James 
and O’Hagan. Ye heavens, what a contrast!” he thought. 
And yet both serving-men; both sprung from much the 
same class. 


CHAPTER XV 


At first, hearing Treherne’s suggestion that he should not 
go to Nauheim after all, should not even allow his family 
to hear of his change of plans, had carried with it, to 
D’Eath’s mind, the attraction of the fantastic, the impos- 
sible. 

All that next day it haunted him with a sort of sly, 
elusive delight. By time night came again the idea had 
familiarized itself to a companionable joke. 

Another morning and he had so far shaken himself free 
as to be conscious of a new interest in life; a feeling of 
freshness and ardor in contrast with which James — strictly 
drilled by Mary as to what his master might and might 
not be allowed to do — became insupportable. One thing he 
could and would do: break loose from James’s yoke and 
send him back whence he came. The whole stolid weight 
of the man thrown against his getting up to breakfast 
decided him upon this point. It was all very well to have 
breakfast in bed if one felt inclined to do so, but to 
realize that from breakfast in bed one was expected to 
slide into the habit of whole mornings there, then whole 
days, this was beyond bearing ! D’Eath hesitated long over 
what he was to say to the fellow, how he was to save his 
feelings; but when once he took the plunge things came 
surprisingly easy. After all, James had no feelings of any 
kind save for his own comfort, and in a minor degree for 
the under-housemaid at Dene Royal — so far as she affected 
him. There were German waiters in the hotel, and he did 
not like them ; they were no class.” He was quite ready 
to go back to the country, and far too unimaginative to 
realize the confused nature of his master’s plans, the uncon- 

136 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


137 


vincing manner in which he was given to understand that 
D’Eath was starting for Germany that very evening, and 
had decided to wait until he arrived before engaging 
another servant on account of the language difficulty. 

Before leaving, James went to the bank and cashed a 
considerable check, settled the hotel bill, and saw all the 
luggage down ready in the hall. He even went to Cooks* 
for small German change and notes. He filled the flask, 
and gave the order for sandwiches. He was minutely con- 
scientious in all he did because he was so glad to be free 
from the thought of living among foreigners who were 
such fools as not to understand his language. At Dene 
Royal foreign travel had seemed like a thing to give oneself 
airs about; in London it had sunk to the level of mixing 
with people who wore dirty shirts and knew nothing what- 
ever about racing. 

He did not stay and see his master off from Victoria 
that evening, because this would mean another night in 
town. Cooks* man would be there, and would make sure 
that Mr. D*Eath had everything which he needed. 

James was accustomed to deal with people of settled 
plans ; people who wanted a good deal of moving, but, once 
started, moved slowly and surely until their pre-arranged 
transit was at an end. Most of the families he had served 
with looked out their return journeys before they started 
anywhere. 

That any gentleman, more especially “ an invalid gentle- 
man** — as James had got into the habit of describing his 
master, feeling that it added to his own importance — 
should do anything so out of all reason as to make ready 
for a journey he did not intend to take was quite beyond 
James’s powers of conjecture. From the day D’Eath’s 
ticket was taken and paid for he was as good as gone. 

As to Hugh D*Eath himself, if he were acting a part 
it is certain that he deceived himself fully as much as he 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


138 

deceived any one else, for, of course, he intended to go 
to Nauheim; in the language of his own kind, everything 
was settled,” and that ought to have made it as tragically 
certain as matrimony itself. He was certain that a week 
or so earlier Mary, turning the leaves of her diary, had 
written against this special date, “ Dear Father left Eng- 
land for Nauheim to-day.” 

He even sent a wire — “Just off to the station”; never 
thought of it developing into a lie. 

At seven-thirty, after an early dinner, a taxi was called 
and his luggage placed upon it. 

“ Victoria Station.” It was the hall-porter who gave 
the order to the driver, even added on his own initiative 
“ Continental Express platform.” Every one knew where 
D’Eath was going, for though he himself might have 
j>assed unnoticed, James had made a distinct impression 
in a hotel where gentlemen’s gentlemen were practically 
unknown. 

It was a perfectly still evening, showing that clear, 
translucent gray tint, faintly shot with rose, which is so 
characteristic of the end of a hot, dusty London day. 
St. Martin’s Lane was crowded with people who thronged 
the early doors of the theaters. 

As D’Eath’s taxi swung out into Trafalgar Square, 
which he had always loved, which, with all the rest of 
London — or, rather, all it stood for — seemed to have grown 
to mean something quite fresh during the last few days, 
a sort of sickness came over him at the very thought of 
Nauheim. He had always longed to travel, but banish- 
ment like this was an altogether different affair; to see 
any new country, however beautiful, through the medium 
of a hydro, permeated with medicine bottles, doctors, 
nurses, the hopeless weariness of perpetual ill-health; it 
would be like a jelly of fruit and sparkling wine strained 
through flannel, tasting of wool. 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


139 


Just as the taxi turned into the top of Whitehall he 
pulled the communication cord and gave the driver an 
order, which puzzled him so that he had to draw up at 
the curb, lean round over the side of the cab to have it 
repeated, make quite sure that he had heard aright. 

All the way to Wapping, Hugh D’Eath, a sober, a pre- 
sumably sober, country squire, the head of a family — true, 
the family had shown a desire to manage their own and 
his affairs without any further help, yet still the head of a 
family — a man of over fifty, eloping — eloping all the more 
criminally in that he eloped alone, a very odd affair alto- 
gether, where oddness was a sin — suffered no qualms of 
conscience, hatched no more nefarious plans; was con- 
scious, indeed, of nothing beyond an extraordinary sense 
of exhilaration and escape, made vocal by a couple of lines 
from “ The Little Vulgar Boy,” which he found himself 
chanting under his breath: 

“He did not go to Jericho; he went to Mrs. Cobb, 

And changed a shilling, which in town the people call a bob.” 

That volume of ‘‘ Ingoldsby Legends ” ! How he had 
delighted in it ! How he had wept when it was confiscated 
by his nurse on account of its awful familiarity with the 
devil and all his works! 

“ It was not for himself so much as for that vulgar child. 

He said ‘ a pint of double X, and please to draw it mild.’ ” 

Ah, here indeed were visions of O’Hagan and his talent 
for carrying three brimming tankards all at once, moving 
his feet with so much sureness that his body hung smoothly 
as some celestial orb. 

Of course, the whole thing was immoral, almost criminal. 
Smoking late by the open window above the river, where 
the tide was coming in with a saltish tang upon the lips, 


140 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


Treherne and he agreed upon this point. But Treherne 
stood firm : “ Criminal methods are, after all, the only 
means which are of any use in grappling with really stupid 
people,” he declared. “ The lies that I’ve told to my 
patients for their own good; the muck that I’ve given 
them! After all, to banish yourself to a place the very 
idea of which you shrink from, just to give up for the 
sake of giving in, there’s a form of suicide, there’s im- 
morality for you I Anyhow, try this for a little while ; you 
are not bound to it; you are bound to nothing. You can 
go where you like, any moment you like; but that not 
looking ahead is the best half of my prescription. All your 
life you’ve been overloaded with other people’s ideas of 
what you ought to be, to do; let’s have an end of all such 
mufflings. Here in Wapping it is the unexpected which 
always happens. Suppose we take that for your tonic, just 
to start with ! ” 

Next day D’Eath wrote his first letter, purporting to 
come from Nauheim. Treherne’s other patient, who was 
leaving London that night, had promised to post it imme- 
diately on arrival ; he was also to post other letters, forward 
any which arrived there; was immensely interested in the 
whole affair. “ That’s one good thing you’ve done, at any 
rate, D’Eath,” declared the doctor on his return from this 
good-by visit; ‘‘amused a man who had persistently re- 
fused to be amused for at least three years, to my certain 
knowledge.” 

D’Eath had shrunk from the writing of that letter; felt 
that it would present almost unbearable difficulties and 
shames. But it did nothing of the kind. Words flowed 
easily; he discovered in himself a facility, a delight, in 
inventions, such as, with a little cultivation, might well 
run to authorship. That the production filled him with 
pride may be gathered from a remark which he made to 
himself on the subject. “Well, after all, there’s William 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


141 

de Morgan ; he was as old, perhaps older, than I am when 
he started ! ” 

The epistle itself was short, a masterpiece of restraint. 
He did not say that he had arrived at Nauheim ; he allowed 
this to be inferred by the address at the top of the letter, 
the address of the hydro to which Sir Humphrey Spender 
had recommended him. He made no actual mention of 
the journey, but he did say he was very tired — here he 
spoke no more than the truth; that the doctor thought he 
might go on quite well with complete quiet, but any sudden 
surprise or shock would be dangerous — and in this he 
showed the wisdom of the serpent, for there must be no 
telegrams, no sudden arrivals; that he had sent James 
away because he felt that he was getting upon his nerves, 
but that he was well attended by his present servant — 
with a mental picture of O’Hagan ; that they all considered 
he was much better among complete strangers, at least for 
the present, so his dear Mary must not worry about him, 
as he realized the absolute necessity of her continued pres- 
ence at home. 

The artifice of it all, the fact that he inquired minutely 
concerning every single member of the family — so that 
Mary might be too deeply engaged in considering her 
answers to find time or space for awkward questions — 
was beyond words. / It seemed like a case of a buried talent 
for prevarication asserting itself under pressure / the most 
significant part of the whole affair being that D*Eath him- 
self regarded it as nothing more than a forestalling of the 
truth. ‘‘ For, of course, I shall go sooner or later I ” That 
was what he told himself. 


CHAPTER XVI 


The man who has never felt himself specially influenced 
by women, save from a sense of duty or some definite out- 
ward pressure, is in a dangerous position — forever on the 
edge of water of the depth of which he is completely igno- 
rant. In youth a plunge comes more or less naturally; it 
may be bracing. Youth flounders to a safe shore, or swims 
easily. In any case, the experience is useful. But with 
maturity everything becomes more complicated, possibly 
serious. The moral being that we had best run into 
danger, risk every sort of contagion during our salad days. 
D’Eath’s own reflection upon what happened that next 
Saturday, when he paid his promised visit to Lady Hester 
Fielden, was that there is no fool like an old fool. To 
some extent the ironical humor of his self-analysis and’ 
observation helped to save him. But that was the merest 
chance. If Lady Hester had been less deeply engaged, or 
in another sort of mood — ^the prowling, looking-round mood 
— here was a victim pathetically ready to her hand. A 
victim gullible beyond words. So gullible that old Harding’s 
prophecy as to seeing him at the tail of a divorce court 
pack might have well come true, had Lady Hester — care- 
lessly, for want of something better to do — ^swept him into 
her net : even conceived the idea that a herd might serve to 
distract attention from the greatest, or rather latest and 
most-favored delinquent. 

The care with which he dressed himself, actually peevish 
over James’s absence, might have warned him; then there 
were the risks he ran of having his continued presence in 
London betrayed by Lady Hester. But he was not to be 
warned, hiding his head in a tangle of reflections upon 
his years, his family. 


142 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


143 


The proof of his state lay in the fact that his very first 
waking thought was of this engagement; that he lunched 
at his club punctually at one, having taken up what Susie 
would have called his ‘‘ glad rags ” with him in a suit-case, 
changed there; that he was ready at least an hour before 
he had the face to start, and that he lingered to buy flowers 
on his way. 

His realized thoughts were purely paternal. Life could 
be enthralling; if he could once interest Lady Hester in 
all the things which had come upon him as so new, so 
delightful, it might give her something definite to do, put 
an end to that spreading wake of gossip which followed 
her every movement. Simply enough he judged other 
people by himself. To know that he, his private affairs, his 
most intimate relationships were the subject of general and 
adverse discussion would have left him stripped, sore and 
ashamed. He had not the very faintest idea that anything 
so beautiful, so appealing as Lady Hester, so closely re- 
sembling — some secret inanity drove him to this com- 
parison — an all exquisite and fragile wind-flower, could find 
happiness only in a glare of publicity, an endless succession 
of erotic passions; that there are people — ^always have 
been, always will be — to whom' notoriety, easy and ex- 
citing, means far more than fame with its over-late 
ripening. 

During all those intervening days this feeling for Lady 
Hester must have been with him, for he had found himself 
continually thinking — in connection with ’Rene Phillips, 
with the house at Wapping, with Treherne, O’Hagan — 
‘‘that will amuse her, that will touch her.” The whole 
thing, indeed, seemed to have taken to itself a permanent 
and almost historic place in his life. It was going to be a 
very wonderful friendship, there was no doubt about that. 

Then, in ten minutes — less — it was all over. 

And here it was — for everything in life is an affair of 


144 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


compensations — ^that D’Eath’s maturity, or his sense of 
humor, saved him. For he did not “ make a hole in the 
river,” as Mrs. Phillips would have put it: did not even 
hover on the brink; nor did he throw himself into that 
orgy of dissipation which Lady Hester herself had 
described as a “ razzle dazzle ” ; simply went to his club 
and indulged in a shade stronger than usual whisky-and- 
soda. Still the thing hurt — ^hurt damnably; while his pain 
was by no means diminished by his reflections that, after 
all, he was only a stupid old buffer, and what else could be 
expected ? ‘ 

This is what happened. The footman who answered 
the door in Grosvenor Square said that Lady Hester was 
not at home, upon which D’Eath insisted that he was 
expected, had been invited. 

At this the man hesitated. He was a newcomer, but 
he had been given his instructions, believed that he under- 
stood them. Lady Hester was not at home to the world 
in general, but she was expecting one gentleman to tea, 
a Captain Inglis. He had heard this gentleman discussed 
in the servants’ hall, and D’Eath did not quite seem to 
answer to the description ; but he spoke with so much quiet 
assurance, was so completely in the hall — laying down his 
hat and umbrella, hugging his bouquet — ^before the man 
had time to make any further protest, that he was hypno- 
tized into leading him upstairs. After all, the whole thing 
was entirely Lady Hester’s own fault; she had been cross- 
ing the hall when Captain Inglis rang — with his own special 
ring, which they had agreed upon — and had opened the hall 
door herself, said nothing to any one. 

With his hand actually upon the door of his mistress’s 
sanctum, the man asked the visitor’s name — perfunctorily, 
because he believed that he already knew it. Even D’Eath 
was struck by the gasp, the look of bewilderment, dismay, 
with which his answer was received; but by then it was 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


145 

too late to retreat, and the unfortunate man threw open 
the door, stuttering some incoherent syllable. 

D’Eath heard a feminine voice rap out, '‘What the 

devil ” and then he was in the room, he and his 

flowers. 

It was the sunny side of the square, and the outside 
blinds were down. For a moment he could distinguish 
nothing very clearly; then Lady Hester emerged, at first 
sketchily, then quite clearly — her flushed face, the sort of 
disorder of her hair; after this the elegance and luxury of 
the room with its delicate brocades and massed flowers; 
lastly, a young man, who had risen from the sofa and now 
stood by one of the windows, smoothing his hand over the 
back of his head. 

“ Oh ! ” said Lady Hester, " is it you ? ” She hesitated, 
as though she could scarcely remember the name, then 
added : " Mr. D’Eath ? ” and put out a cool hand. 

She was not in the very least embarrassed; she took no 
pains to hide her feelings; she wanted him away, and 
showed it, frankly, brutally. 

D’Eath felt an ass. His own courtesy had him at a 
disadvantage; it would have seemed like a sort of insult 
to say : “ Oh, well, I see I’m not wanted ! ” and turn and 
leave the room, though that was what Lady Hester her- 
self would have described as " tact.” 

In place of this he murmured, inanely enough : “ Satur- 
day, you know ” ; then added, " I brought you some 
flowers.” His own voice sounded far away and odd. As 
his hostess volunteered no remark, he added something 
about — " Coals to Newcastle,” and laid his offering upon 
the nearest table, glad to get rid of it. 

“Thanks awfully.” 

“ Not at all. You said you would be in, you know.” 

“ Oh, but not this Saturday, was it ? ” Lady Hester 
moved over to the mantelpiece and re-arranged some 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


146 

photos which were propped up against the glass, photos of 
more or less beautiful young men. She did not ask 
D’Eath to sit down. It was quite clear she had forgotten 
her invitation to him, and that her one idea was to show 
him, quite plainly, that he was not wanted — ^morally elbow 
him from the room. 

The young man who had been standing by the window 
moved a little forward, sat down in a low chair, thrust 
his hands deep in his pockets, and stretching out his legs 
regarded his feet with an air of absorbed interest; then 
raised one across his knee and smoothed the purple silk 
sock with a caressing hand. 

Lady Hester’s lips tightened ; her eyes, cold and insolent, 
were full upon D’Eath; but she said nothing. 

“ I suppose that Mr. Fielden’s down at Ranelagh ? 
What team does he play in?” A sudden feeling of 
obstinacy had come over D’Eath; he was miserably beaten, 
and he knew it ; but if she wanted him gone he was deter- 
mined to drive her to the necessity of openly dismissing 
him. At the back of his mind was a sort of hope that he 
might have been deceived in his impression of the pair, 
the look of that sofa; that she might, in some way or 
other, justify herself. For the sake of her class if for 
nothing else. 

He had, however, little conception of the coarseness of 
the material with which he had to deal. 

“ Look here, Mr. D’Eath, I’m frightfully sorry, but 
really you’ve made a mistake. And that stupid man! I 
told him to say ‘ not at home ’ to every one. The fact is 
that I — Captain Inglis and I — are rehearsing for some 
theatricals, very much pressed for time.” Her finger was 
on the bell as she spoke. 

“ Then ” 

“If you don’t mind — another day.” She extended a cool 
hand. The young footman, still very red in the face, was 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 147 

at the door. There seemed no course left for D’Eath save 
to take his departure, acknowledge his defeat. 

And yet he was not altogether crushed, some spirit was 
left in him; nor was he altogether that unlovable creature, 
a perfect man, for over his whisky-and-soda — having 
done with that groveling reflection on being “ nothing 
more than an old buffer ” — he reflected savagely enough 

that it would serve that ” (here he used a specific 

term which Vera and young Helstone, discussing their 
respective kennels, employed with the greatest freedom, 
and from which he had always shrunk as one of the ugliest 
words in the English language) ‘‘ right if her husband did 
divorce her.” 

He was sorry for poor old Kiddington, he thought. And 
then his humor reasserted itself. What a fool he had been ! 
And after all, in thinking of Lord Kiddington, were not 
any sort of children preferable to dull children? 

Supposing he had been the man sitting on the sofa with 
Lady Hester, might he not have sincerely admired the 
strength of mind, the determination which she showed in 
getting rid of an unwelcome visitor? 


CHAPTER XVII 


Treherne's friend left for Nauheim the day before D'Eath 
paid his first and last visit to Lady Hester Fielden. That 
was Friday, the twenty-fourth of July; on that day Eng- 
land, along with Russia and France, were still giving elder- 
brother advice to Serbia, which still remained detached and 
far away from the general life of the people. 

The very next week it began to seem as though the 
outer world were jostling, rubbing elbows with — or, in the 
language of Wapping, ‘‘ shovin’ ” — England, hitherto so 
serenely sea-ringed and aloof. 

For so long as the quarrel had lain ’twixt Serbia and 
Austria there had been scarcely a flutter. The country 
was like some complacent British matron who reads of 
divorce suits in the papers and remains unmoved, knowing 
herself inviolable, forgetting that even in this twentieth 
century there is such a thing as rape. 

When the trouble began to spread to Germany and 
Russia, Wapping, at least, was stirred. There were Wap- 
ping men in Hamburg and the Baltic ports. The uneasiness 
fringed the maze of streets, followed the river, the shipping 
with its sailors. 

To the back of that islet — up which those slow-moving 
barges had passed upon the day of D’Eath’s initiation — 
lay the London Docks, in twin basins. The men from the 
ships which lay there and hung against the riverside gath- 
ered in groups, talking little, spitting much, and yet ani- 
mated, drawn together by some common sense of impending 
trouble. Here and there groups of Indian or Chinese for- 
gathered with their own kind; races dropped apart, even 
there, where the blood is so mixed. 

148 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


149 


On Friday, the thirty -first — the Friday following the 
departure of Treherne’s friend — O’Hagan came into the 
sitting-room where the two men were awaiting supper, 
sitting smoking in silence by the open window, with a 
torn fragment of a bill-head, upon which was scrawled 
in blue chalk this message : ** Arsk the dokter ter pleeze ^ 
cum at wons ter Mr. Affan’s shop, ware a man ’as bin 
knifed bad.” 

I’d ’ave me supper fust if I was you,” remarked 
O’Hagan, with his air of heavy weariness, that odd swing 
between brogue and cockney. ** Like enuff the man’s dead 

by now, an’ ’im honly a b y Rooshun when all’s said 

an’ done.” 

“ But, O’Hagan, the Russians will be our Allies if the 
worst comes to the worst ” 

“ Them there Rooshuns an’ Prooshuns, there ain’t nuffin’ 
ter choose atween ’em one way or t’other. It was ’is wife 

as did ’im in, an’ she orter know. Sarve ’im b ^y well 

right, that’s wot I sye. Them dirty furriners! Wot do 
we want wid ’em an’ thur dirty ways ! The sooner they’re 
all killed off the better fur us.” 

It was a lurid evening; the sunset sky, hot red and pur- 
ple, piled the west with immense clouds, against which 
the riverside chimneys stood out as though cut in black 
velvet and pasted upon it; the river itself was like molten 
lead. All day it had been almost unbearably close, and 
D’Eath was dead tired; why, he did not know, for he 
had done little beyond making periodical pilgrimages to 
the Tower Bridge in search of fresh editions of the 
evening papers, which had begun to appear before 
midday. 

The man who had been stabbed in Affan’s stifling little 
gaming den, which styled itself “ The Marine Store,” died, 
and his wife was detained in custody awaiting her trial. 
By the end of the week everybody had forgotten about 


150 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


her. But somehow it was this murder which seemed to 
mark the beginning of the war for Hugh D’Eath, and 
from this onward feeling ran high around the docks. The 
possible fighting on land did not seem to matter, but at 
sea things were already happening, and it was perfectly 
marvelous how news traveled. 

On Sunday, the second, German troops invaded Luxem- 
burg, and the ever-smoldering antipathy against Square- 
heads” of all kinds rose to fever height; while the story 
of how British merchantmen were being detained in Ham- 
burg ran in with the tide. 

Already O’Hagan’s wife’s second cousin, married to a 
German baker, had taken up her quarters with Ling-Wing 
as a sort of national protest. The two barricaded them- 
selves into Ling’s one upper room, next door to “ The 
Black Boye,” and when the deserted husband kicked at the 
door, shouting abuse and supplication, weeping, they leaned 
out of the window and laughed at him; at least, the 
woman laughed, while Ling hovered in the background, 
smiling his inscrutable smile, and the boys of Wap- 
ping pelted the unfortunate German with mud and other 
filth. 

O’Hagan’s wife’s cousin only stayed with the Chinaman 
for a couple of days, for she did not like him or his ways, 
which she declared to be “ beastly ” ; but, as she said, noth- 
ing could have shown “ that there Muller what she thought 
of him and all his gory race better than going off with a 
Chink.” 

That Sunday passed heavily, weighted by the general 
idleness, the uncertainty; ships which might have sailed 
were delayed, because no one knew what was going to 
happen. 

Sitting by the window that evening D’Eath suddenly 
remarked : “ I suppose Mr. Whitacre will have posted that 
letter by now.” He spoke as though under the pressure 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


151 

of a sudden idea, and yet the thought had come to him 
again and again; supposing that all this trouble forced 
England into war with Germany, as now seemed certain, 
and he was officially supposed to be in Nauheim, what 
would happen? Shame, compunction, and a sort of inward 
exhilaration, excitement possessed him. 

He was supposed to arrive on the twenty-eighth, stop- 
ping a night at Wiesbaden,” answered Treherne, leaning 
back in his chair, his pipe in his hand, blowing out a great 
puff of smoke, which he watched with an absorbed and 
far-away gaze as it floated towards the ceiling and hung 
there, for though both window and door were open no 
breath of air stirred. 

He, too, was thinking how oddly the immense tragedy 
of war might affect that tiny comedy which he and D’Eath 
had spread out upon their puppet stage. 

Of one thing he was certain. The people at Dene 
Royal would not disturb themselves over-much with 
thoughts of the man sitting opposite to him, fine drawn 
by the heat and restlessness of the day, delicate, lovable; 
capable of a thousand modulations of feeling, intuition, 
fine sensitiveness, keen enjoyment, if only some sym- 
pathetic hand were at work upon his heart strings. 
He had been like a viol in an orchestra where a brass 
trumpet was the one instrument to have attracted 
attention. 

Treherne himself would be glad if he could think that 
D’Eath’s family did suffer. But they would not; they 
were not of that kind, unless it should happen that this 
war affected their pockets, their position, and then they 
would only suffer for themselves; that almost unendurable 
sense of pity for the waste, the loss, the pain, which was 
already overwhelming him, drenching him in deep waters, 
would scarcely touch them. To his mind they repre- 
sented an impregnable fortress of selfishness, built up 


152 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


layer upon layer by successive generations, from the pre- 
vailing type of which D’Eath himself stood out as a sort 
of sport. 

Midnight of Tuesday, the fourth, brought the declaration 
of war between Germany and England. 

Next afternoon, the fifth — when that strange, swarming 
movement of people too anxious and excited to remain in 
their houses, so noticeable in London during those first 
intense days, had reached its zenith — the groom who 
had been sent to Chingford for the paper, later than 
usual, for there had been people to lunch with horses and 
carriages and he could not be spared, brought back the 
news to Dene Royal, along with that first letter from 
Nauheim. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


The thought of their father, actually in Germany at the 
outbreak of war, did not affect Hugh D’Eath's family very 
greatly. He counted for so little. In their own way they 
were fond of him, but they blundered over him and past 
him. He represented to them much what the twilight does 
to people without imagination, incapable of appreciating 
its thousand subtle graduations: something time-wasting 
and futile. Besides, from their point of view — which was 
not a point at all, but a solid wedge of generalities — ^he 
was an old man and a non-combatant. They — or rather 
England — had always behaved decently to people of that 
sort, and they did not see why other countries should not 
do the same, in a lesser degree, of course, but that would 
be their misfortune rather than their fault. 

Of course, it might be “ awkward,’’ or ‘‘ uncomfortable.” 
Perhaps that was the extent of their fears so far as their 
father was concerned. If he did not like being in Nauheim 
with the war on, of course he would come home. 

Horace D’Eath and old Roger Colburn and Colonel Hel- 
stone all said the same thing. 

As to the war itself, that did not greatly surprise them; 
partly because under such a Government they had felt that 
anything might happen. They declared that they had 
expected it, quoted Lord Roberts ; but they had no idea 
how ludicrously disproportionate were their expectations to 
the actual thing; and here they were at one with the rest 
of their generation, all so very cocksure, so braced up by 
their sense of superiority to everything and every one which 
had ever gone before. 

In Cottingham Club one old general did indeed declare 
his conviction that there would not be a young man left 

153 


154 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


in Europe by the time that the war came to an end, wore 
itself out ; and this thought deepened the lines on his fine 
old face, hardened his blue eyes with that expression of 
looking ahead, living over again unmentionable things 
which the very word “ war ” brings to those who know 
something of what it may mean. A few of the other 
retired military men, whose juniors were apt to forget that 
their whole life had not been spent in the club arm-chairs, 
agreed with him; forgot their gout, forgot Home Rule; 
almost, but not quite, forgot their party politics; though 
it is certain that even they had no realization of the pos- 
sible concrete truth, the dreadful truth of old General Ban- 
croft’s words. 

But to most the whole thing was like a mustard plaster, 
so loosely laid to the skin, so cooled ofiF by the Channel — 
lying like a fine linen handkerchief between the two — ^that 
there was no actual “ bite ” left. 

And yet in oddly diverse ways they must have had some 
perception of what it might mean. Lady Fitzgibbon, for 
instance! For though she declared that Sir Thomas was 
certain the whole affair would be over by the autumn — 
and as he was Mayor of Cottingham “ he ought to know 
if any one did” — ordered eight dozen tinned tongues, six 
dozen of pate de fois gras, and two dozen fine Yorkshire 
hams from the Army and Navy Stores — on the fifth of 
August, too ! 

Of course, all this was before people really understood 
that business would go on as usual, whatever happened. 
After that even the undertakers felt assured that, should 
more or less everybody happen to be killed in France or 
Flanders, the Government would still supply them with 
something to bury, even at the sacrifice of their own 
persons. 

In Dene Royal itself they had tried to keep the upsetting 
news of the war from Peggy. In their hearts they all 


WHILE THERE'S LIFE 


155 


realized that nothing ever could upset that young person, 
so long as her own personal comfort was assured; but in 
her present condition it seemed the proper thing to 
credit her with the femininity, the sensibility of the Vic- 
torians. 

Certainly it would have taken something more than a 
European war to affect Peggy D'Eath at this juncture. 

It's not in the least likely that any one will expect 
George to fight," she said, so why need I worry ? " 

During these few days Peggy had thrown off her dan- 
gerous weakness. She was like a blade of wheat; there 
seemed nothing of her, and yet she was so persistent, 
so full of a sort of greedy vitality that she lived where 
another more robust-looking woman might have died. 
Apart from all this she had in front of her the happy 
realization that now the baby was born she could really 
begin to do things again, go about as usual. She did not 
seem to realize that while she gained in strength the child 
lost; or if she did she would not allow herself to consider 
it, or anything else which might serve to keep her back. 
She was quite nice to George, but she did not need him, 
though she would not have liked him to go to the war. 
As a matter of fact, her whole being was concentrated 
upon this business of getting well ; she was a good patient, 
taking her nourishment regularly, reminding the nurse if 
it were a moment late. The nurse herself declared it was 
like tending a machine; and indeed that was what Peggy's 
body, her strength represented to her, an apparatus for 
getting the greatest amount of amusement possible out of 
life. 

The only way in which she felt the war was connected 
with a plan she had formed for leaving the baby with 
Mary and the nurse, and making George take her to some 
gay French watering-place directly she was well enough. 
Now, of course, this was out of the question. Still, she 


156 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


did not waste time and strength bemoaning the inevitable, 
but like that same blade of wheat — turned by a clod — 
pushed herself out in another direction. She would go up 
to Scarborough; it was always pleasant there in August, 
and there would be people she knew. 

George, in his heavy way, was more disturbed. Of 
course, the enemy would be completely smashed, and that 
in next to no time; but still the war would upset things. 
There were committees forming upon which he sat, in 
common with the rector, old Roger Colburn, Lord Kid- 
dington, and all the other county magnates, for the encour- 
agement of recruiting. On these committees George was 
regarded as an authority upon foreign affairs. He ordered 
a French daily paper; for a week he opened it every 
day and glanced at the headlines, conscious of his own 
prestige as the only man in the district with any expe- 
rience of foreign affairs ; then put it aside. After the first 
week he did not even open the papers, and neatly rolled 
copies accumulated until Lady Rose Harvey, Kiddington’s 
eldest daughter, saw and begged them for making into a 
species of patent fire-lighter, by means of which she 
hoped to encourage the villagers to give up using fire- 
wood, and so save England. Everybody was very busy, 
excited, and in some ways happier than they had ever been 
before. Gertie St. John was. in Cottingham helping the Red 
Cross by means of theatricals, of which the chief feature 
was the charming Pompadour costumes, absolutely true to 
history. 

Mary did all that she could, but she was terribly upset 
because the Chingford hospital had requisitioned the serv- 
ices of the Boy Scout who did the boots and knives, and 
this grievance overshadowed her whole horizon. Anyhow, 
there were, as yet, no patients in the hospital, and she did 
not believe that there ever would be any, for it was certain 
that the war would be over before they were able to get 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


157 


wounded men back from France, at least in any numbers. 
“ Why, they’ve hardly gone yet,” she said, and who knows, 
all sorts of things may happen.” As a matter of fact, she 
could not believe for a single moment that the Almighty 
would not intervene and prevent them from all being made 
very uncomfortable. Here the rector was with her. “ For 
are we not in the hands of the Lord ? ” That was what he 
said, without any sign of Germanic boasting; for the peo- 
ple who are really quite sure of themselves and their friends 
do not boast; it is not good form. Really that was one 
reason why the German Emperor never would, never could 
win the war; he was not a gentleman. King Edward had 
been known to say as much, quite plainly. 

As the news of the horrors in Belgium came to them they 
were awed ; but, after all, things like that could not happen 
in England. There, in the pastoral heart of the Midlands, 
was the heart of that inviolate matron who was once all 
of England, the England which governed and gave weight. 
At the back of the minds of many of the individual wives 
and mothers was the idea that, after all, there had been 
“ things said ” about the way nuns “ went on ” ; that all 
foreign women were notoriously loose ; that in some vague 
way they must have “ encouraged ” the German soldiery. 

“ Well, I don’t know, my dear,” said the Dowager Lady 
Kiddington. “ Of course, it’s all very dreadful, perfectly 
shocking, but I somehow can’t imagine that any man would 
ever dare to take any sort of a liberty with me. It’s like 
women I know who complain of being stared at, even fol- 
lowed in the streets of London. It must be something 
about them, that’s what I say.” 

Perhaps there were not many who actually agreed with 
the old lady in what she said. But for all that she voiced 
a general, and wider, feeling that what was happening to 
other peoples could not possibly, under any circumstances, 
happen to the English. Never — never— could they imagine 


158 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


themselves as stripped of all self-respect and regard; sheer 
animal through fear and pain and desperate need. 

It was a beautiful summer, full of fruitfulness and 
promise. The elm trees, with their largesse of shade for 
drooping cattle, were softly solid masses of dull greenery; 
like no other tree on earth, and yet all earth, brooding, un- 
shaken, maternal. Down the park from Dene Royal the 
giant beeches went “ curtseying,” as old Mrs. Toms said, 
their wide shining skirts sweeping the grass. Upon the 
lower slopes of the hills, with their wonderful panoply of 
cloud shadows, fields of wheat and oats and barley were 
enameled in varying shades of gold and gold-shot-silver. 
At the edge of every coppice, the border of every cart rut, 
over every scrap of waste ground — and these were many, 
for the farmers were lavish of their land — stood tall masses 
of willow-strife and foxglove, underlaid by the vivid won- 
derful blue of crane’s-bill; a blue which reflected, blended 
with the purple above it. 

The grass on the hillside was brownish, with a pungent 
burnt scent, slippery as glass; but the wide plain with its 
double silver ribbon of river was still a vivid green diapered 
with innumerable cattle and sheep, moving, slow as the 
century, with bent heads. 

The harvest was early, and already the oats were being 
cut. Great yellow wains moved in and out of the stack- 
yard. At the home farm, Davies himself was on the rick 
in his shirt-sleeves with the sweat running down his brick- 
red face, hard at work pitching; for it seemed as though 
the weather were almost too good to last, and there had 
been a heavy dew — “an unkid flop,” as they called it — 
the night before. Once he straightened himself, and stood 
for a while gazing out over the wide, sun-steeped valley. 
“ It do seem sorter queer — seein’ them there beeses a-grazin’ 
so contented loike along them hams, an’ us a-gettin’ in 
the harvest same as never was — ^ter think as over in France 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


159 


there do be men loike mad a-fightin’ o’ one another, great 
guns an’ all. An’ many a nice young chap a-gone ter ’is 
death afore this.” 

Old Sam Oxley, up on the rick alongside of him — -son 
of the ancient Gaffer Oxley — followed the bailiff’s glance 
with vague, watery blue eyes, as indifferent as a child’s. 
‘‘ Them does saey as ’ow there do be a power o’ shootin’ 
over there, an’ our men a-mortifyin’ them there Germans 
sunimat cruel. My son Jim’s lad do be out in them parts 
now.” He paused, smiling meditatively. ‘‘ Eh, well, it do 
be foine weather fur shootin’, that’s certain sure.” 

“ Oi wunner wot them there Frenchies be a-doin’ abut 
their ’arvesties, pure devils,” said Davies, wiping his arm 
across his face and grasping his fork afresh as a new load 
rolled up. In some vague way he was uneasy, oppressed, 
although the harvest was more than a fair one. 

“ Well, the gentry do tell as it ain’t no manner o’ use 
startin’ their shootin’ until the stubble do be clear, an’ 
them’s the ones as orter know,” answered old Sam serenely, 
and leant forward, his fork poised ready to catch the first 
sheaf ; for though he was close on seventy he was still 
hale and hearty, jealous not to be outdone by his son Jim, 
who was pitcher a-top of this fresh load. 

At that moment a girl of twelve came running, stumbling 
up the rough roadway along which Susie and her father 
had ridden seven months earlier. She had no hat on, and 
her lint white hair and faded pinafore blended softly with 
the silver puffs upon the willow-strife. 

As she scurried into the stack-yard with the odd, side- 
ways fluttering movement of a scared fowl, it could be 
seen that her eyes were wide, her face white, smeared with 
dust and tears. 

“ Feyther ! f eyther ! ” she called to the man upon the 
wagon ; then up to the curious old face peering down upon 
her from the rick: “Gran’dad! feyther! there’s a letter 
corned; an’ mother seys as ’owe yer must cum ’ome, an’ 


i6o WHILE THERE’S LIFE 

I wasn’t ter tell yer. But — oh, feyther, feyther! Ower 
Jim — ower Jim ! ” She snatched her apron to her mouth 
and held it there, her narrow little face convulsed. 

Eh?” 

'‘Shot — dead!” sobbed the child. “Ower Jim!” and 
flung her apron over her head, while her father threw his 
fork on to the rick and climbed down, slowly and pon- 
derously, from off the wagon; then took her hand and 
moved off with her, without a word : stumbling a little, the 
fine healthy red of his face turned to a sickly yellow. 

“ Eh, dear ! ” said old Sam. “ Tut, tut. Did yer ever 
’ear the loike o’ that, an’ ower Jim’s not yet risin’ twenty. 
Moy Jim do be fair flummoxed — er, bailiff? Dearie, dear 
now, an’ ’im an’ ’is wife that sot on young Jim as never 
was. Eh me! but it’s fearsome doin’ this ’ere fightin’. 
I reckon as ’ow I’d best go an’ tell feyther; uncommon 
set on young Jim the ole chap did be, fur sure — ’is furst 
great gran’son an’ all. I’m danged if it dwarn't be an 
unkid ’ard world wid these ’ere dratted wars an’ all. Eh ! 
but I mun go tell feyther.” 

There were tears in the old man’s faintly blue eyes as 
he scrambled slowly and painfully from off the rick, and 
yet he trembled with excitement. It was so seldom that 
there was ever any news to tell any one, particularly his 
father, who would remark with scorn of his choicest scrap 
of gossip, “ Did Oi know as ’ow Queen Anne wur dead ? ” 
as though he still heard everything there was to be heard 
long before his son. 

Once upon firm ground old Sam walked briskly enough, 
with the small, quick steps of virile old age. Davies could 
follow him with his eyes down the hill almost to the village, 
going all tipitty — tipitty; could see how his son Jim, great, 
strong, broad-shouldered man, lurched in his walk so that 
the little maid put out a hand to steady him. 

Davies’s own eyes were full of tears. Young Jim had 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


i6i 


been his plowman until he joined the Army a year before 
war broke out; joined it because he wanted to see some- 
thing of the world ; and now he was dead. 

‘‘ Them there b — — y Germanses, that there danged 
Kaiser! I’d rape an’ scrape ’em proper if I could get at 
’em! A pore lad as never did no ’arm to no one, an’ 
plowed as straight a furrow as never was. It fair taeks the 
’eart outer the ’arvest, that it do.” 

The Oxleys were by custom chapel folk; but on great 
occasions they went to church, and they were all there 
next Sunday, in one of the front pews, dressed in deep 
mourning. 

It was a baking hot day ; the sun poured with sickening 
radiance through the unshaded windows. The whole church 
was alive with the buzz of flies, heavy with the faint smell 
of new black. 

There was a sound of bitter, subdued weeping from 
Jim’s mother, as the rector, towards the end of his sermon, 
spoke of young Oxley cut off in the flower of his youth, 
giving his life for his country; a weeping which was sub- 
dued because the gentry were there, and even grief must 
know its place; while through it all — ^the deep sobs, the 
ornately rounded sentences — like a small whiffling wind 
ran the sound of suppressed tears, snifflings from Jim’s 
sisters, for he had been an only son, from the aunts and 
cousins who filled the entire pews with a long line of black 
stretching right across the church, broken only by the center 
aisle. 

Next day Jim Oxley — “ owd Jim,” as he had been called, 
though he was not yet forty — handed in a week’s notice to 
Davies. 

Oi’ve kinder got ter go an’ ’ave a smack at ’em, 
bailiff,” was all he said. 

That was the beginning of the war for Laishens. After 
a while, through church and chapel alike, the people who 


i 62 while THERE’S LIFE 

wore mourning seemed to spread like a blight upon the 
wheat. 

Vera D’Eath’s wedding was hurried on, shorn of all 
its glories, for young Helstone had been called up with 
his detachment of Yeomanry. Irene started nursing in 
one of the Red Cross hospitals, though she did not per- 
severe at it for long, complained of a want of scope. 
Charles was at home but one night before embarking for 
France. It seemed as though George and Mary were to 
be left alone to carry on the traditions of the house, for 
ever talking of retrenchment, and yet, in their heart of 
hearts, equally determined that nothing should be changed, 
relinquished. In this Mary’s persistence, her tenacity were 
beyond him, beyond all words. The whole of her narrow 
nature had been concentrated upon Dene Royal, Laishens, 
Little Laishens. Outwardly unselfish, she was as tenacious 
as a limpet where her own position was concerned. She 
was not clever enough to put it plainly to herself, but it 
amounted to this. If there were no more houses like Dene 
Royal, no more subservient villagers, no system of low 
wages and doles, her importance, the importance of her 
kind would be gone for ever. 

The rector gave up his afternoon tea, but he did not 
give up his after-dinner port. Harold talked of applying 
for a post as Army Chaplain. 

Peggy had her trip to Scarborough and a perfect trous- 
seau of new frocks. George took her up and left her there, 
declaring that it was impossible for him to be away from 
home at this juncture, dimly resentful of her going. 

After all, she was only absent a bare three weeks, for 
she was recalled by the death of her child. She would 
have been no good if she had been there, and yet George 
felt that she ought to have been there, that in some way 
she was responsible. 

At this time it seemed to George D’Eath that the whole 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


163 

foundation of his life was undermined, that nothing could 
ever be worth anything again. He took his son’s death 
badly; was amazed, almost insulted. 

Apart from this great disappointment there were all sorts 
of minor worries, mostly connected with that deed of gift. 
Little Laishens was empty, and sadly in need of repair, 
while Charles was writing fierce letters from France dis- 
puting the responsibility for the expenses of drainage, also 
a very long bill for forage, which he declared to have been 
run up before the new arrangement was made, and which 
his father would have discharged without a word. 

Old Colonel Helstone was anxious about his boy; also 
anxious as to what sort of claims a young widow might 
make upon him, supposing the worst should happen. He 
did not feel that the newly married couple had been fairly 
treated under that deed, and said so, laid the whole blame 
upon George. 

Irene, fretting under any sort of restraint, had taken 
a flat in Cambridge near to her work, so as to have some- 
where to go in her holidays and during her hours off. 
Catch her coming home ‘‘to be domineered over by that 
prig George ” was what she said. 

Meanwhile she insisted upon the despatch of certain 
articles of furniture from Dene Royal, which she declared 
to be hers ; for where was the use of buying new furniture 
when she already had a fair stock. 

After all, her claim was modest enough, and Dene Royal 
was so full of furniture that nothing would have been 
missed had it not happened that George’s own favorite arm- 
chair, the one in which he always sat at afternoon tea, 
happened to be among the articles claimed by his sister; 
while no words can convey the sense of irritation which 
overcame him each time he entered the drawing-room and 
saw another chair in its place. 

Peggy was always grumbling, her new frocks were of 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


164 

little use to her as George insisted upon mourning — “ So 
silly for a child of that age; I’m sure it’s much better 
out of this rotten old world ! ” — and now he would not 
give her any more because he declared that he must 
economize. She could have got round her father-in-law, 
who saw through her ; she could not get round her husband, 
who had preconceived ideas of his wife as she naturally 
would be because she was his. 

After a while he forgot the horror of that night when 
his son was born; almost forgot the child itself, who had 
not been a real child, merely an heir; too immature for 
any individuality, unless it might have been to a mother’s 
eye. He and his wife were young; they would have more 
children. 

He had said as much to Peggy, and she had not answered, 
only looked at him with a peculiarly cool and calculating air. 

Sometimes, walking about the place, busy with his 
eternal plans for the future, that look of his wife’s would 
return to him with a sense of rather sickening chill. If 
any one had suggested such an idea to him he would have 
pooh-poohed it with scorn, but in his heart of hearts he 
knew that Peggy did not intend to have any more children. 

On one such occasion, which came right on the top of 
a tiresome difficulty with old Cherry, he almost wished 
his father back again. After all, it did not seem as though 
he were likely to get much save trouble and worry out of 
his inheritance. 

'' I wonder what the old fellow’s doing now.” He 
actually thought that, and no mere words can ever express 
how much this meant, the comparative imagination involved. 

For, of course, Mr. D’Eath was in Nauheim taking the 
waters. They had already had one letter from him, would 
have had more save for the war. 


CHAPTER XIX 


Susie’s holidays began on the second of August that year. 
Feeling in the school ran high during the last few days of 
term ; prize-giving and speech day dropped to their proper 
level of silliness. “ Twaddle ! ” that was Susie’s pronounce- 
ment on the speech of the titled personage, an ex-Colonial 
Governor, who was to give away those books which no 
one ever read. 

In some ways it was an advanced school. The girls were 
expected to know something of foreign affairs ; the Morn- 
ing Post was studied with the help of an atlas each day. 
In addition to this, they had a debating club and a mock 
parliament. 

There were two German girls there. They had always 
been unpopular, and now might have become ostracized 
had it not been for Susie’s intervention. “ What can you 
expect from a pig but a grunt?” that was what she said. 
All Germans were gobblers; no wonder they wanted to 
snap up Serbia — darling, brave little Serbia ! ” “ The 

other Great Powers were idiots not to have seen what 
they were after.” With a few of the other older girls 
Susie had made a sort of cult of the Balkans ; anyhow and 
always, she was an ardent champion of the oppressed. 

One of the governesses escorted her and several other 
pupils as far as London. There Susie joined up with 
Rosie, her mother and elder sister, and a brother, Leonard, 
from Sandhurst. They were all to travel down to Cromer 
together, and had an hour or so to spare in town. The girls 
needed bathing gowns, and Leonard must see his tailor — ^to 
self-absorbed youth there was something pleasant in the 
very sound of the words “ my tailor.” 

165 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


1 66 

The whole place was posted over with placards announc- 
ing the general mobilization of the German and Austrian 
forces, naval and military. It seemed to Susie, who did 
not know London very well, that it was more alive than 
it had ever been before. 

They had meant to lunch at one of Appenrodt’s shops, 
but they would not, for they were German, and the Ger- 
mans were behaving like pigs. Mrs. Craven did not think 
it mattered, because, after all, the potato salad and coffee 
at Appenrodt’s were better than anywhere else. But she 
gave in, as she always did. It was her boast that she 
and her children were on terms of perfect equality, that 
they treated her exactly like one of themselves ; as a matter 
of fact, they treated her as any sixth form boy treats a 
kid in the junior — with a mixture of condescension and 
disregard. 

The whole party was immensely excited over the prospect 
of war. 

“ By Gad ! ” cried Susie, “ I hope that we’ll be in it — 
have a smack at ’em.” 

Rosie’s elder sister, who could afford to be more proper 
than her mother, found fault with her. Really ‘‘ Gad ” was 
the same as God, and not the thing. 

But Susie — who had caught the phrase from old Roger 
Colburn — would not retract; declared that was what she 
meant. Her blue eyes were blazing with excitement, her 
face flushed. 

“If we’re to believe what we’re taught He’s ‘ sniffing the 
battle from afar,’ now, at this very moment ! ” she said ; 
upon which Rosie’s brother, who had felt afraid she might 
be only a silly kid, laughed approvingly. 

There were boys selling Union Jacks in the street, and 
she bought one, stuck it in the buttonhole of her blue serge 
coat, moved with a swing which was martial. 

Driving in an open taxi to Liverpool Street, the crowd 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


167 

around the Royal Exchange, all through the thickly packed 
streets of that mysterious city, thrilled her. It was not 
only the beginning of the holidays; it was the beginning 
of Life — with a big L.” Not for anything would she 
ever go back to school again; she would go to the Balkans 
and nurse wounded heroes. “ What’s the good of wasting 
your time mugging over things that are over and done 
with, when everything in our own world’s happening all at 
once ? ” that was what she asked, playing up to Rosie’s 
brother who declared she was a sport, and no mistake 
about it. 

They stayed in lodgings in Cromer. And what a place it 
was for youth, once war had been declared. There was 
the continuous coming and going of troops, bands, cheering, 
spy scares, ambulance classes; more men than Susie had 
ever seen in her life. All this combined with sunshine and 
a fine fresh wind, yellow sand, cliffs, coves, the scarlet of 
poppies everywhere. Such a bounty of color; one did not 
miss the red coats at Cromer! The poppies themselves 
were like regiments. At least, that was what youth 
thought, said. There were others who could not bear to 
look at them, who had visions of yet other fields blazoned 
with a dreadful gules. But they said nothing, for no one 
likes to be accused of unnecessary pessimism. That is, 
indeed, one grievance which youth has against old age: 
its disillusions, the way it knows and knows that it knows, 
spoils other people’s pleasure by its very look of knowing — 
“ Oh, all that will soon pass ” — even if it says nothing. 

The whole of Cromer pulsed with youth and ardor. 
Rosie’s brother made love to Susie and taught her to 
smoke. At first she thought him wonderful, and very kind. 
But in a couple of days he was replaced by a real lieu- 
tenant staying in the same hotel, who took her out in his 
side-car. 

They danced every night, and every day they rolled 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


1 68 

bandages. They gave pennies to the little boys who marched 
the streets with paper helmets and tin cans for drums. 
They sang and whistled and flung words of command at 
each other, lived in a world of restless excitement and 
noise, feeling very important. For, of course, it was the 
young who counted now, the young to whom the nation 
looked. Words cannot express the contempt felt for the 
“ dug-outs,” the elderly, slow, deeply apprehensive people, 
all alike accused of “ cold feet.” When they talked of 
their ' own youth they were ridiculous, simply ridiculous ,* 
there never had been anything like youth before. 

Only, each morning, as they read over the lists of the 
killed and wounded, were the young people awed, for a 
moment or two, into silence. 

Sometimes there were dreadfully personal touches. The 
names of boys whom Leonard and the other young men 
had known at school ; and not only “ the bloods,” but dull, 
spotty boys who had never seemed of any special impor- 
tance — so suddenly, culminatively, important and apart. 

Always it seemed to Susie D’Eath that the same thing 
happened with these lists — which, sparse as they were at 
the beginning, seemed worse than anything which came 
later, because so almost unbelievably strange — a sudden 
pause in her heart’s beat, a pause in life itself. It was 
like putting on dark smoked glasses in the middle of a 
brilliantly sunny day. 

But very soon the high wave of excitement swept them 
all off their feet once more. It seemed, indeed, as though 
youth were acquiring a new avidity for its roses, its crowns ; 
there was something reckless and hectic in its pleasures. 
Rosie’s sister became engaged during the first fortnight to 
a youth whom she had never seen before. It appeared to 
the two younger girls that the greater number of the girls 
who had left school no more than a couple of years earlier 
were either engaged or actually married. 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


169 

** Young people will be young people,” said Mrs. Craven, 
and yet that did not explain it. She herself had not mar- 
ried until she was eight-and-twenty. Her mother had 
married at seventeen. It was, superficially regarded, a 
swing of the pendulum. But those young marriages had 
not been like these ; in those days there was no other career 
^ possible to a girl. 

It seemed that at the back of all their minds was some 
desire to get everything there was out of life, some pre- 
monition of loss. With the boys it was different ; they were 
less avid, but they, too, had harked back. Like their 
grandfathers, though they would not have owned to it 
for worlds, they wished to be the fathers of chil- 
dren; while deeper still, quite unguessed at, lay an 
instinct for the preservation of their race as a 
whole. 

Susie D’Eath was to stay a month at Cromer, then Rosie 
was going home with her for the remainder of the holidays. 
That was the arrangement. 

At the end of a little over three weeks, however, some- 
thing happened, and the war came sharply home to her 
with the thought of her father. 

There was a letter in the paper dwelling on the probable 
sufferings of English civilians in Germany ; she caught sight 
of the word “ Nauheim,” and it seemed that her heart 
stopped; she must go back to Dene Royal, see what they 
were doing. 

She would not wait for Rosie; Rosie could follow later. 
As a matter of fact, she did not know that she would be 
able to do with her at all. She was perfectly indifferent 
to Rosie herself, to Rosie’s mother who had been so kind 
to her, to Rosie’s brother and sister, to the lieutenant and 
his friends. She had but one thought, and that was for 
her father. 

She made so light of the journey to town, of the long 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


170 

drive in a taxi from Liverpool Street to the Great Western 
station, that they would scarcely have thought of finding 
her an escort had it not been that a certain Major Gilbey 
was going up by the same train. 

Mrs. Craven was relieved. She had boundless belief 
in the capacity of the rising generation to look after itself 
— almost overdid the responsibility which she allowed to 
rest upon young shoulders — ^but still Susie was not her own 
daughter, and Major Gilbey was a nice, sensible, middle- 
aged man. If he had not been middle-aged it is probable 
that he would not have kissed Susie in the first tunnel, and 
had his ears well boxed for his pains. 

“ Now,” said Susie, with her merciless tongue, staring 
at his reddened face when they emerged into the light of 
day, ** I know what is meant by senile decay ! ” She gave 
a little gesture of disgust. Leonard had kissed her good-by, 
but he had smelt so nice and fresh of soap and youth. 
Major Gilbey — or so Susie declared later — smelt all musty, 
of stale smoke and middle age, while the quality of his kiss 
was altogether ‘‘beastly.” 

It was a long journey even after Paddington was reached, 
and she had only threepence left over from her fare, so 
that she could not afford a tea-basket or the telegram she 
had meant to send to Mary. Mrs. Craven had respected 
her independence so excessively that she had not ventured 
to inquire after her finances. 

It was just on eight when the train reached Cottingham, 
and nearly half-past before, by means of promises and 
entreaties, Susie prevailed upon a cabman to take her up 
all those hills to Dene Royal; though she explained that 
she was only eight stone, and there was no luggage. She 
had taken her box on the cab to Paddington, and there it 
vanished. It might have been put on another train, or it 
might have been left behind; she did not know what had 
happened to it, did not greatly care. She could not imagine 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


171 

that she would ever bother about clothes again ; all that was 
past, done with once for all. 

The drive seemed as though it would never come to an 
end. If Susie had been possessed of means wherewith to 
pay the man she would have given it up half way and 
walked; but she was chained to the grumbling old cabby, 
his broken-kneed, spavined horse. 

It was past ten when she reached Dene Royal, rang the 
bell, told the astonished Collins to pay the cabman — “ and 
have done with him, for the Lord’s sake ” — ^then tumbled, 
disheveled, dirty, dead tired into the drawing-room, where 
Peggy was picking out tunes upon th^ piano, and Mary sit- 
ting close under the lamp busy with some sewing. The 
luxury of the room, the freshness of the flowers, the order, 
the peace sawed across Susie’s frayed nerves, though she 
could scarcely have said what she expected. 

George and Harold came in from the smoking-room. 
What in the world had happened? Why was she there? 
Why had she not sent a telegram? Was it true that she 
had been so silly as to promise the cabman a sovereign? 
What train had she come by ? They overwhemed her with 
questions and reproaches. In her fatigue and irritation she 
flew at them, snapping right and left. She felt herself like 
Fly, the fox terrier, with the rats at threshing time : pounc- 
ing on them and their silly-billy questions, shaking them, 
throwing them aside. 

*‘What about father? I want to know about father. 
Oh, what the blazes does all that matter? Tell me what 
you have heard about father — is he all right?” 

** Father, my dear Susie ! Father’s at Nauheim ; surely 
I wrote, I ” 

I know, I know ! ” she stamped with impatience. 
“ Good heavens ! Don’t you ever read the papers ? This 
morning’s paper — didn’t you see it ? ” 

“ I haven’t had a moment to look at the paper ; but there 


172 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


wasn’t anything very partic;ilar, was there? I would have 

heard ” began Mary, looking round at the others with 

her pleasant smile. Susie was dreadfully difficult, tiresome, 
but there was no use in allowing her to upset the entire 
household. 

‘‘ You’re hysterical, my dear Susie,” put in George ; the 

best thing for you is to go to bed and What’s that, 

Collins ? ‘ The young lady promised him a sovereign ! ’ 

Nonsense, and in these days too! I shouldn’t think of it. 
Ten shillings, that’s the proper fare.” 

“ There you are 1 ” cried Susie, “ haggling about a beastly 
cab fare ! Isn’t that just like you ! Now, look here, did you 
or didn’t you read the paper ? ” 

“ Of course I read the paper.” 

“ Then you saw about the civilians in Germany, the way 
they’re being treated; you saw about Nauheim! And yet 
you can stand there — ^you — ^you — and argue about a cabman. 
And Mary with her stupid sewing, and Peggy in a silly 
Juliet cap. Everything all going on just the same, and him 
shut up there — ^tortured and starved ! I can tell you I know 
what Germans are; there were two of them at our school, 
they don’t care for anything or anybody. They’re — they’re 
exactly like you, that’s what they are ! And I couldn’t say 
anything worse. Going on as if nothing had happened ! ” 

“ My dear Susie,” interposed Harold, who believed him- 
self to have a way with young people, inclined to mild 
jocularity. “What did you expect us to be doing? Sack- 
cloth and ashes are out of fashion in these days, you know. 
We’re more practical, more robust.” 

“ You’re silly, heartless fools,” said Susie rudely, “ and 
that’s all there is to you ! ” 


CHAPTER XX 


It was seldom, indeed, that D’Eath penetrated as far as 
the West End during those first weeks in Wapping. For 
one thing, his days became increasingly full. Sometimes 
he would awake in the morning with that old feeling that 
there was nothing which really mattered for him to do; 
then one thing after another would crop up. O’Hagan 
would need him, or Nurse Fenton, or the girl who helped 
her — a tall, slim creature with appealing eyes, a mocking 
mouth, the coolest brain and steadiest nerve imaginable — 
would come to him for help, the delivery of some message, 
the support of some damaged limb which required dressing ; 
above all, the soothing of some hysterical or quarrelsome 
patient, in which he seemed to have acquired a certain 
knack. 

The two women used to praise him by saying — ** Some 
day you’ll be a second Sergeant MacCann,” referring to 
a raw-boned, seemingly phlegmatic police sergeant, who was 
a famous arbitrator in all matrimonial and semi-matrimonial 
disputes, common referee, comforter, backer. 

D’Eath had met the man several times, and wondered 
at the reputation which he had achieved, until one day he 
saw how, when a tiny child running across the road stum- 
bled and fell, MacCann ran to pick it up, stooped his lank 
person and impressed a kiss on either dirt-engrained palm ; 
then took his own handkerchief to the blood-stained knees. 

After this he took to studying the police sergeant, weigh- 
ing his influence and personality in relation to those with 
whom he had to deal ; realized how the man’s stolidity, his 
slowness, his patience acted upon their irritable nerves, 
their chronic suspicions. 


173 


174 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


For D’Eath, during those early days, the people seemed 
like a race apart from those to whom he was accustomed. 
Their very language, racy as it was, hardly expressed the 
diversity between their traditions — and these were as many, 
as complicated as those of “ the county ” — their point of 
view, their ideas on every subject. 

At first he regarded them broadly, as one does regard a 
hitherto unknown people. It was weeks before he began 
to realize them as individuals, to differentiate; but with 
this more intimate knowledge came the utter collapse of any 
idea of Socialism as it then stood; for surely there could 
be no community, in the whole world, among whom indi- 
vidualism was more rampant. 

It was odd how, during those first weeks, he saw the 
population of Eastern London in color. Looking back he 
remembered that he had seen the country people in much 
the same way, though he had not thought of it then, when 
he was so near to them; his own class as a dullish red, 
brighter in youth, inclining more and more to maroon as 
the years went on; the others — like Yeld — the color of 
the earth which they tilled. 

Here in Wapping there was very little actual black or 
white. If there was black it appeared more as space than 
anything else, like the coal-boxes among the stars; where 
the blackness was most felt there was nothing actually to 
be seen or known, though the whole effect was one of 
terror. For the rest he saw the riverside people done in 
drabs, with threads of orange and scarlet, and here and 
there the gleam of pure gold — as in ’Rene Phillips, adulteress 
as she was. 

The women interested him most. They were extraor- 
dinarily lenient with the men. They did not condemn 
drunkenness; they suffered personal cruelty with a sort of 
pride ; they stood by crooks and cut-throats. But soppiness, 
softness of any kind, they could not and w^ould not abide. 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


175^ 

Many of them were just hussies, immoral, so far as 
standard morality went; dishonest, dirty, with no idea of 
how to cook a decent meal, set a straight stitch, keep a 
house, or even one room, clean; noisy, brawling, slovenly, 
sly. They were nearly all this — if by chance any one of 
them was clean likely enough she was a shrew. But they 
were more than this. They were amazingly loyal to their 
mankind, to their neighbors, friends. It was seldom, in- 
deed, that either man or woman gave any one away, even 
an enemy. Their kindness and generosity were beyond 
words. 

And yet there was but little gratitude shown or ex- 
pressed; everything was taken for granted. Even when it 
was a question of Treherne going to the war it was difficult 
to say whether the people really cared for him, or were 
merely jealous of what they had grown to consider as their 
rights. 

In that district, indeed, it was only when a man was 
dead that it became possible to say for how much he had 
counted. And even then only if he were given a plain, 
** dry ” funeral. 

D’Eath had seen ’Rene Phillips more than once, meet- 
ing her by appointment at the tea-shop; while one Sunday 
she came down to tea with him and Treherne at the house 
on the Pier head. 

He would not risk going to her Piccadilly stand. For 
one thing, it would have spoiled everything if he had been 
seen and recognized. For another the very sight of that 
London which had once been all he knew of the great 
patchwork conglomeration of contradictions, of the West- 
End people with that smooth, suave outline, that calm, 
assured movement, that blank and bland gaze which has 
been caught up by hotel and club porters, shop assistants, 
servants, prostitutes — ^giving a superficial resemblance to 
all West-End faces, quite apart from the North, the East; 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


176 

above all, the South — would have brushed away something 
of the fine, ardent sense of adventure which had come to 
him, with the realization of being completely detached from 
everything which had gone before. 

It was, indeed, like some of the long past, make-believe, 
dreams of childhood come true. The great dream common 
to all children with imagination of being deliberately lost; 
so disguised as to be unrecognizable even to oneself. There 
was even that fascinating tang of piracy about it, which 
no man who has ever been a real boy quite outgrows; 
more particularly at night, when the rats slipped from their 
lairs, and the electric launch of the river police, with its 
one gleaming eye, slid silently in and out of the dark hulks 
which hung along the river wall. When there were deep, 
black gaps of silence, broken by an occasional shriek zig- 
zagging like lightning across them; when all sorts of 
strange things fell into the river, with a splash which 
caught at the heart, and were, or were not, fished out! 
again ; when there were robberies of truly piratical magni- ^ 
tude, high-laden barges drawn away from their anchorage, 
stripped to the last spar, and left swinging against some 
distant steps at the farther side of the river. To read the 
police notices of losses, robberies, the offers of rewards, 
was enough — cargoes of copper, oil, spices, fruit, bales of 
paper, all gone at a sweep. 

One day he encountered ’Rene Phillips by chance upon 
the top of a bus somewhere east of St. Paul’s. She was 
not on her direct route home, and ke wondered where she 
was going until he saw that she had a spotted toy-horse 
in her basket, negligently overlaid with a few half-faded 
flowers. 

She realized his glance in a moment and flushed hotly. 
“ It’s fur the kid ; I thought as ’ow I’d leave it artside the 
door. ’E don’t not never seem ter ’ave anyfink ter plye wiv, 
pore little devil ! ” she said. Then, as though something in 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


177 

D’Eath’s glance hurt her, she added : No, I be darned if 
I do ! ” and pressed the toy upon a small boy sitting with 
his mother upon the seat in front of them. “ Sorter dreamt 
I ’ad a kid ! ” she said, “ but it ain’t come true, though our 
lan’lord’s cat ’as kittened.” 

It must have been after this — as she had spoken of 
leaving the spotted horse outside the door — that her ac- 
quaintance with her successor to Alf’s affections, the lumpy 
bed, ripened ; for one day she said, quite suddenly, a propos 
of nothing that had gone before : It can walk. Though it 
didn’t orter, its legs is that bandy. It luks for all the world 
as if it ’ud been put too close ter the fire and warped. 
But it knows me fine.” 

“ Do you speak to it ? ” By this time D’Eath’s mind 
was accustoming itself to leap from one subject to another, 
to relinquish that chewing habit of the country-side. 

‘‘Well! wotcher think? An’ it’s Ma too. I tells yer 
strite she may luk like a kipper, but she’s a real lidy fur 
all that. I was tellin’ ’er the wye as Alf likes ’is toasted 
cheese, wiv a dash o’ beer an’ no end o’ mustid. Oh, 
yus, she’s a lidy, an’ she knows ’ow to treat a lidy,” added 
Mrs. Phillips, with a toss of her head in the direction of 
that particular waitress who had attended to them the 
very first day they had tea together, and whose presence 
acted as a continual challenge to the flower-seller. The 
very way in which she smoothed down her white be-starched 
and frilled apron was enough; the difference between that 
apron and the other woman’s — coarse, clean, ample, in 
some odd way maternal — was of itself sufficient to explain 
the reason of this antagonism. 

’Rene had not lost flesh, she was smooth and rosy as 
ever, but there was a strained look in her fine dark eyes, 
a restlessness. For a day or so she had thought of taking 
up with yet another man in Alf’s place, but it did not 
come to anything; not that she “minded him,” but she 


178 WHILE THERE’S LIFE 

could not seem ter settle to him,” or that was what she 
told D’Eath. 

“ I’m off men, that’s a fack ! ” she declared. “ Asides, 
I don’t know what blokes are cornin’ to. This chap now 
as I was a-tellin’ yer of ; in general ’e’s not forrard enuff, 
an’ then when ’e is forrard ’e gets on tikin’ liberties. No 
moderation in nuffin’, an’ no guts to ’em neither.” 

Then late one evening O’Hagan came up to the sitting- 
room and told D’Eath that there was a lady downstairs 
wanting to speak to him. 

It was ’Rene Phillips. The night was hot, but she wore 
her shawl dragged tightly around her with the tragic air 
of a Roman toga. She looked unfinished, one-sided, shorn, 
and D’Eath could not understand why until he realized 
that he had never before seen her without her basket. 
The nights were drawing in a little, and the gas flickered 
in the hallway — one meager jet amid all the stately panel- 
ing — showing the girl’s face white, swollen with tears, and 
with dark rings beneath the eyes. She wore no hat, and 
her heavy plaits of hair hung low on either cheek. 

“ I want that there doctor o’ yourn,” she said hoarsely ; 

that there kid o’ Alf ’s ” 

What is it, my dear child, what is it ? ” 

“ Pneumony, so the doctor says, but ’e aint no good, 
no class. Besides, they don’t not all die o’ pneumony, I 
tells ’er that, but she’s scared a-cause o’ mine. It ain’t 
got nuffin’ ter do wiv Alf neiver, so I tells ’er; but she’s 
fair off Alf, thinks o’ nuffin but the kid.” 

“You’ve been there?” 

“All day an’ arf las’ night.” She gave an impatient 
movement, glancing upwards. “ That there doctor o’ 
youm ” 

D’Eath ran upstairs, and Treherne came down in a 
moment. The fact that there was another doctor with the 
child did not trouble him. He was “ a friend of the family.” 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


179 

He had a way of saying this, with a grin, of all his 
East-End patients ; and, indeed, unless you were a ** friend 
of the family,” knew something of its capacity in the way 
of brains, time, money, what was to be done? 

They went off, the three of them, together. More than 
once ’Rene had shown an intimate knowledge of the neigh- 
borhood, and D’Eath now realized the reason for this : her 
old home lay within a mile of the river. 

Up Nightingale Lane they went, along Leman Street 
and Christian Street, through indescribable alleyways, round 
corners, over greasy cobbled pavements — every now and 
then stepping aside to avoid some recumbent figure propped 
against a wall, half in, half out of the gutter, some lurching 
drunken sailor or brawling woman. ’Rene Phillips slid by 
them all alike without a glance, her shawl drawn up over 
her head; it was evident from her sureness of line that 
she was familiar with every step of the way. 

At last they came to a street of narrow, more or less 
respectable, four-storied houses, and she mounted the steps 
of one of these, passed in with a backward beckoning ges- 
ture — even here the hall door was wide open, or altogether 
gone — then upstairs to the third floor, where she opened 
another door, and looked back, beckoning again. 

The room which Treherne and D’Eath entered was a 
combined sitting-room and kitchen, meager, tidy, and very 
clean; the walls a careful patchwork of a paper-hanger’s 
samples. 

Only opposite to the door was a bare space, while a 
number of flowered china jugs and other crockery stood 
upon the floor. 

“ The chiffonier ’ad ter go,” whispered ’Rene. It’s all 
very well fur Asquiff ter keep on sying bizness as usual, 
but it ain’t true, not o’ plummin’ any wye. It seems as 
folks can’t not do wiffout doctors, but they can wiffout 
drains, at least that’s Alf ’s experience, ain’t it, Alf ? This is 


i8o 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


Alf,” she added; then, *‘Mr. Alfred Phillips, Mr. D’Eath— 
Mr. Alfred Phillips, Doctor Treherne.” 

A short, depressed-looking man who was sitting by thf 
gas-stove, leaning one arm upon it, his head on his hand, 
glanced up, bowed majestically. 

D’Eath’s first impression was one of amazement at the 
smallness of this demagogue, this defier of kings. The chair 
was a high one, but even so his shoulders were raised, 
his elbow was strained up to the level of the stove. For 
all that, unshaven, red-eyed, squinting, undersized as he 
was, there was something about the set of the jaw, the 
squinty, sidelong stare, which proclaimed a man who would 
be master in his own house. 

“ Pleased ter meet yer,” he said ; ‘‘ pleased ter meet any 
friend o’ me wife’s ” — ^here he paused, then added, medi- 
tatively, *'so ter speak. Won’t yer tike a seat?” His 
sharp, anxious little eyes slid off at a tangent from one to 
another; it was evident that he knew in a moment which 
was the doctor. 

Treherne and ’Rene passed through to an inner room, 
and D’Eath sat down on the chair indicated to him by 
Mr. Phillips, who had not risen from his seat. 

Directly opposite to him was the space formed by the 
doorway of the bedroom, like a picture in a dark oblong 
frame. 

The room in which he sat was almost dark, lighted 
by one candle; in contrast with this the inner room with 
its paraffin lamp appeared to be brilliantly illuminated. 
There was a large tumbled bed and something very small, 
above which the two women stooped, lying in it: the one 
woman all curves, the other sharply angular. Across the 
end of the bed hung a pair of trousers and a towel ; there 
was a spotted horse tethered to it with a piece of string. 
“ So she bought another,” thought D’Eath. 

Through the silence of the room sounded a heavy, gasp- 


WHILE THERE^S LIFE 


i8i 


ing breath. It was not continuous. There was a struggle^ 
then a sudden race; another struggle; another galloping 
race. It was almost impossible to associate the sound with 
that tiny mound upon the bed; would have seemed as 
reasonable to credit it to the account of the wooden horse 
shaking its head loose, galloping across the cobbles out- 
side, jibbing, plunging, rearing, and then galloping off 
again. 

Treherne and the other doctor, a pale, very young man, 
had drawn a little apart; they were not even speaking, 
simply standing looking down at the bed. 

D’Eath wondered why they did not do something. The 
sound of that agonized breathing was almost beyond bear- 
ing. He glanced at his companion, and saw that Mr. 
Phillips also hung upon that open door; one hand across 
his mouth, strained and anxious. 

“ Proper mix up, that's wot it is,” he whispered hoarsely, 
each word detached as though some instinct impelled him 
to keep in time with the harsh, rattling breath. Them 

two women ” He broke off, both men rose to their 

feet. For what seemed like an eternity the sound ceased. 
To D’Eath it was as though some one had taken hold of 
his heart, held it tight. 

Then it began again, quicker, more difficult. 

“Gawd, that give me a turn!” breathed Alf. Neither 
man moved, it had become almost impossible for them to 
draw their own breath. 

There was another break, and once more it appeared as 
though they were hung in space. 

Alf raised his hand to his forehead and glanced curi- 
ously at his fingers, glistening with sweat. Then, as the 
dreadful sound began again, muttered something to the 
effect that ’Rene’s kid had gone the same way. “ I’m sure 
I don’t know why. There weren’t never nuffin’ amiss wiv 
me,” he urged distractedly; while it was evident from his 


i 82 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


words, from what ’Rene herself said, that there had been 
some confused talk of heredity. 

He opened and shut his strong hands, looking at them 
curiously, with a sort of pathos, squared his shoulders, and 
glanced down sideways at his own, short, thick-set person 
as though endeavoring to understand where the weakness 
lay. 

Once more the labored breath ceased. But it now seemed 
as though they were able to regard the pause with equa- 
nimity. Of course, it would begin again. 

For what seemed a long while they waited in certainty, 
almost calm : found no meaning in the fact that Treheme 
had moved forward and touched ’Rene on her shoulder, 
while the other woman sank down by the side of the bed, 
her face hidden in her hands; still waited, stupidly en- 
deavoring to hold their own breath until that ominous, and 
yet longed for, sound should begin again. Then very 
slowly it dawned upon them that the two doctors were 
speaking together, scarcely lowering their voices ; that ’Rene 
had sunk down beside her companion, her arm around her ; 
that there was a murmur of voices, a sound of sobbing, 
and yet withal a dreadful blank of silence, through which 
Alf’s breath came with a sudden rushing hiss. 

After a moment or two the young doctor went away. 
Treherne followed him into the other room; then ’Rene 
came, with the lamp in one hand, her arm around the 
mother, who sat down slackly upon the edge of that little 
sofa of which her predecessor had been so proud, holding 
her apron to her face. 

“There weren’t not never a cuter kid,” cried ’Rene, 
kneeling by her side, the tears streaming unchecked down 
her cheeks. “ Nor a prettier, neiver.” She paused a mo- 
ment, and added : “ Not never — not at a year old, any wye. 
The pore little duck ! ” 

She was kneeling straight up; the other woman, shaken 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


183 

by anguished sobs, had laid her head against her breast, 
and she rocked her to and fro as she spoke, with odd little 
murmuring sounds in between her words. 

“ There, there, there. Listen ’ere now. I’ll go ter the 
market ter-morrer early an’ get ’im such a wreath as never 
was; all them big white lilies. Come, now, ’e’ll like that, 
the pretty little dear.” 

If ’e ’ad wot ’e was most set on ter ’is buryin* it ’ud 
be that there ’oss as yer giv’ ’im.” 

There ain’t no nuffin’ as I wouldn’t ’ave given ’im ! ” 

Well, yer couldn’t ’a’ bin more kinder, not if ’e wos 
yer own, an’ that’s wot ’e orter ’a’ been,” sobbed the other 
woman. Then — ** Oh, dearie, dearie, whatever shall I do 
wivout ’im. I wish I wos dead, along o’ ’im ! I wish I wos 
dead, that I do ! ” 

“ Gawd ! ” said ’Rene, staring straight in front of her 
with white set face, “ don’t I jes’ know wot ut feels loike. 
But there, my dear, there now, there, there ” 

The lamp went out with a sudden pop; the candle, low 
in its socket, wavered and flickered. 

“ Wot abart a bit o’ supper ? ” began Alf , with sudden 
decision. But the two women, clinging together, took no 
notice of him, back in his old place by the gas-stove: 
did not even look up when D’Eath and Treherne slipped 
from the room. 

For some time there was silence between the two men, 
slowly and dubiously threading the tangle of narrow streets. 
Then Treherne gave that short laugh for which D’Eath 
had grown accustomed to listen when he was in any way 
moved. 

‘‘The rivals!” 

“ I can’t understand it I In our class those two women 
would not even be on speaking terms.” 

“ Well, ordinarily it would be the same here, to all prac- 
tical purposes — ^though there would be talking enough and 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


184 

to spare, and more than words. But that flower-girl of 
yours is different, so different that she makes the other 
woman different too. Women like that do not belong to 
any class, any race, but to those thrice blessed exceptions 
who always do the one thing you could never even have 
thought of. She’s the complete primitive woman, plus a 
sense of humor and fair play; at least one might say so if 
any sort of classification were possible. The interesting 
thing now will be to see which of the two is left in pos- 
session of Alf.” 

For a week or more they speculated at odd moments 
on the adjustment of that bizarre household. D’Eath saw 
nothing of ’Rene. More than once he thought of ventur- 
ing as far as Piccadilly, finding out what had happened ; but 
he refrained, for her sake as well as his own. It was best 
to leave the girl alone, to allow affairs to take their own 
course, which in the end proved to be one which neither 
he nor Treherne had as much as thought of ; and here 
’Rene justified herself, her persistent diversion from the 
ordinary, for one Sunday she and the “ Kipper ” came in 
state to call. 

Alf had joined the Army, and they had set up house 
together. 

A few days later, when D’Eath encountered ’Rene on 
her way home, smiling and friendly, she explained her rea- 
son for being earlier than usual. “ I told Maudie as I’d 
be back afore six. She an’ I are goin’ to tike that there 
blinkin’ mattress ter pieces an’ tease up the flock. Lord! 
ter think o’ the months an’ months as I’d set my ’eart on 
that there job, an’ then went clean off it, in a manner o’ 
speakin’. But it’s goin’ ter be done na. Old Alf will find 
everyfing slap up ter the mark when ’e comes marchin’ 
’ome, wiv flags flyin’, an’ no mistike abart it neiver.” 


CHAPTER XXI 


Life at Dene Royal was not going smoothly. To George 
the whole thing seemed so inexplicable that it almost — not 
quite — depressed him into thinking less of himself. More 
than once he wished that his father were back again. In 
a vague way he began to think more kindly of the man 
he had counted out since he was a cocksure boy of fifteen ; 
earlier indeed, from the time that he first began to show 
that smug, rather sanctimonious complacency and snobbery 
which was part of the more luxurious preparatory school 
atmosphere of twenty years ago — evidence of a violent 
reaction against the hardships of an earlier day — when 
miniature Conservatives in Eton suits were brought up to 
believe that life ran on for ever in certain well-padded 
grooves for themselves and their kind. 

He had always been at enmity with Irene, but still, 
because she was so much quicker than he was — so decided, 
however wrong — the things which she said stuck in his 
mind, influenced his thoughts ; and Irene’s verdict respecting 
her father had been — Of course, he is a dear in his own 
way, but that is not enough in these days; what needed 
is character, efficiency.” 

George believed himself to be possessed, in a very large 
measure, of both; and yet, by some means or other, that 
inefficient father of his had managed to keep things going, 
and in smooth working order, with a facility which was 
beyond him. 

Of course, nothing was done exactly as it should be, 
but a dreadful doubt as to whether this was ever to be 
hoped for overcame George at times; in addition to this, 
there was evidence that his father had been robbed right 

185 


WHILE THERE^S LIFE 


1 86 

and left. And yet there had always appeared to be plenty 
of money, was no quarreling, no complaints as now. “ I 
suppose they imagine that they can play up with me, just 
as they like,^’ he thought resentfully: feeling young and 
crude for the first time in his life, as he battled against the 
stolid, silent wall of opposition which confronted him at 
every step; more particularly exemplified by his complete 
failure to prevent a recent short cut across the best pasture 
land on the Home Farm from developing into a right of 
way. 

It was all very well to talk of bringing an action; he 
tried that once. But one can’t go on for ever bringing 
actions against one’s own people — frightened-eyed, but ob- 
stinate children, bland and cringing old women, daily 
workers coming and going from their jobs. 

They made a hole in the fence at one point, which 
was mended again and again; again and again broken 
through. Cherry said : Best put a stile and have done 
with it. Those new quarries on the hillside have altered 
things ; the women and children take the men’s dinners that 
way, it saves them close on a mile.” 

‘‘ I be hanged if I do anything of the sort,” answered 
George; he was always hot and overbearing with the old 
agent who had fagged his own father at school, and who 
was as slow, hard to turn, as the dark, heavy tilth of the 
uplands. “If I once put a stile, gave in to them, there 
would be no end to what they imagined that they could 
force me into doing. It would be a fatal weakness.” 

“ Still, at times, it’s best to float with the stream. If 
a thing does not matter very much, if it’s more trouble to 
stop it than to let it go on.” 

“’Umph, that’s just it! Look here. Cherry, I don’t 
want to be rude — no one appreciates you, faithfulness and 
all that, more than I do — but this sort of laissez-faire policy 
has been the ruin of this place, and there’s got to be an 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 187 

end to it. One must move with the times.” George was 
fond of saying that, meaning that no one else must be 
allowed to move, constituting himself the policeman of the 
age in Laishens. “ One can’t go on for ever in the old 
haphazard way; things have got to be kept up to the mark 
in these days of competition. And a field like that, all 
trodden over by indiscriminate footpaths, is so much dead 
waste; likely enough we’ll be breaking it up next year, and 
then what will happen? The best thing is to give you 
my explicit orders; then no one can come down on you, 
if that’s what you’re afraid of. The first person who is 
caught breaking through that fence has got to be prosecuted. 
Now, that’s flat ! Once for all, I’ll have no more of it.” 

‘‘ You can’t prosecute your own people.” 

“ I can prosecute them, and I will prosecute them ! ” 
declared George. 

“ Well, you know, just now, with this war and all ” 

began Cherry in his slow, rambling way. 

“ I can see no reason why this war should upset all the 
rights of personal property. On the contrary, at a time like 
this, it is more necessary than ever to enforce law and order. 
However, there you have my wishes, and Davies too. You 
can both put all the blame of it on me, my shoulders are 
broad enough to bear it.” 

Touching his finger to his hat, George rode off, very well 
groomed, very upright. He had spoken with literal exact- 
ness; his shoulders were broad, almost too squarely broad. 
It seemed to Cherry, sitting loosely with long stirrups, in 
his old greenish-gray tweeds, on his rough gray cob, that 
there was something stiff, unpliable, in young D’Eath’s 
seat; a lack of oneness — though he had ridden from his 
childhood — between himself and his mount. He could 
manage it, had it well in hand; but he managed it like a 
machine — as he thought to manage Laishens and Dene 
Royal. 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


1 88 

In his own room that evening — a comfortable, untidy 
room, littered with papers, books, fishing tackle — sitting 
over a glowing eye of wood fire, trying to read the Mark 
Lane Express, the agent’s mind went back again to George 
— ^his master now ; though only nominally, for one is power- 
less to master what one cannot change. 

Young George was making trouble for himself. There 
would be nothing so dramatic as open revolt, but there 
would be endless difficulties set in the way of everything he 
wished to do, a persistent disregard of his wishes. He re- 
garded Cherry as being hopelessly behind the times. Cherry 
himself realized this perfectly, but he also realized that he 
was moving with the times far more surely than George 
himself. Moving as the people themselves moved, in a 
slow, hidden way like the germ of life in the buried seed. 

George was bent on treating his tenants and work- 
people in the way all the D’Eaths, up to his father’s time, 
had treated them since the Enclosures Act; as something 
between idiot children, personal possessions, and enemies. 
He talked largely of his experiences in diplomacy, of the 
knowledge and tact necessary for a man who has anything 
to do with the handling of European Policy. Cherry had a 
shrewd idea that George had been a failure in his profession, 
a man does not so easily give up a career in which he 
knows himself to be at his best. For all that he was fond 
of telling his agent that he must learn to take a broader 
view of life, not allow himself to be brought to a pause by 
trifles — “ All this, you know, is so simple in comparison with 
what I’ve been used to,” he would say. “ Once get a work- 
ing plan, stick to it, and a place of this sort ought to run 
itself.” 

Always George visualized himself as the model land- 
owner, with the best run property, the best shooting, the 
neatest village in the district. He saw himself, as so many 
people do. But the mirror of his mind was not large enough 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


189 

to contain others ; and if you see only yourself, out of rela- 
tion to the rest of the world, you are blind for all practical 
purposes. 

That little knot of people whom he regarded as part of 
his inheritance, small in actual number and yet so strong 
because they were necessary, because they were united and 
had the habit of silence, who were moving along with the 
rest of the world — perhaps more surely because more 
slowly — were outside of his calculations; save as a certain 
sized block which only needed a little compression to be 
perfectly fitted into the careful parquetry of his life. 

Of course he was right about that footpath, steadily 
wearing itself into a permanency, the sanctity of his fences. 
He was always right, too right, too eminently reason- 
able. 

It was just his ill-fortune that the very first person 
caught hacking his way, with a knife — ^literally with a 
knife — through the freshly laid and woven screen of black- 
thorn, then stamping it down with his heavy hobnailed 
boots, should have been old Sam Oxley; and this on the 
very day when “ owd Jim ” had finished his training, gone 
out to France to replace his son. 

Sam was had up before the magistrates. There was no 
conviction ; George would not have pressed for one. Dur- 
ing the Sunday which intervened he had felt a curious sense 
of shame when, in standing up to read the first lesson, he 
realized that the long black line of Oxleys — ^which ever 
since that funeral sermon had remained faithful to the 
church — was now conspicuous only by its absence. 

Those pews had been among the best. The rightful 
holders of them — influential yeoman farmers — had given 
them up to the stricken family, the first in that district to 
suffer loss from the war, without a word. Now, equally 
without a word, they remained empty. The original occu- 
pants declared themselves to be very comfortable ” where 


WHILE THERE^S LIFE 


190 

they were. No one else would enter them, unless some 
stranger happened to visit the church. 

One Sunday a kitchen-maid from a neighboring house, 
all flustered by her own lateness, was shown into one of 
them, and the people stared so that she broke out all prick- 
ing with heat, giggled, wept, and finally fled down the aisle 
with her handkerchief to her face. 

An iron hurdle was put up in place of the cut swathes of 
that unfortunate fence. But it was removed the same night ; 
never seen again. 

The path widened ; for now, since old Sam was not con- 
victed, the people used it openly, walking two or three 
abreast. 

They were all quite civil to George ; but they returned his 
greetings without a smile. The young people would move 
on with a swing and a shrug. More than once he caught 
the sound of a laugh, a muttered “ Old stuck up ! ” 

He was helpless. However much you may believe in 
law as a proper adjunct of order, you cannot prosecute any 
one for laughing. The older people took another, subtler 
line; they were more accustomed to being kept under, and 
there is no under-dog, however stupid in most ways, who 
has not his own subtle cunning, his own malice. 

They would pass him with that bland, bovine gaze, finger 
to the forelock or half curtsy. Then turn and ask after his 
father. 

“Eh, dear, you must be in a turruble taekin* about the 
poor gentleman fur sure. Out there among them there 
’eathens. Like enuff *e saw owd Jim’s Jim shot an* all. 
Dearie, dear, such a kind gentleman as never was. Well, 
well, ’tain’t likely as we’ll ever come across the likes o* ’im 
again. It dawn’t not seem loike the saeme place now since 
’e do be gone.” 

The promiscuous gathering of firewood — which included 
the breaking off of dead boughs, taking toll of hedgerows— 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


191 

was forbidden. There were printed notices to that effect. 
But it still went on. The cottagers were told that they 
must not keep lodgers, but they still kept them. No one 
could prevent them from showing hospitality to their own 
relations, and suddenly it seemed as though the hill quar- 
ries were entirely worked by the cousins of people in 
Laishens or Little Laishens. It was all very well for 
George to forbid the keeping of pigs save on the allotments ; 
but he was really powerless to evict either the pigs or their 
owners, for agricultural labor was scarce; while in all that 
he ordained his sense of helplessness was augmented by the 
fact that everybody agreed with everything he said. 

It was not only among his tenants and workpeople that 
this spirit of antagonism showed itself. There was the wife 
of his bosom; if Peggy could be called that when she set 
something so cold and stiff and apart between herself and 
the embraces of her husband. She never once said that she 
did not intend to bear another child, at least not for years 
to come ; but George was beginning to have a shamed feel- 
ing that there were certain things of which she knew more 
than he did. He had always been a bit of a prig, prided 
himself on keeping aloof from any improper talk; had taken 
it for granted that Peggy knew nothing when he married 
her, because that was the sort of girl he had always in- 
tended to marry. Of course he might still discover, any 
day, that she was again going to have a baby, or if she was 
not in that condition it might simply mean that she was not 
yet in her normal state of health. He told himself this, but 
in his heart of hearts he knew better. Knew that there were 
things Peggy knew — which gave her that air of cool cer- 
tainty, bodily compliance — ^that he did not know, could not 
even guess at. 

And even this was not the end of his troubles. At first 
Peggy had submitted to Mary’s continued governance of the 
house. It would leave her free; she did not count on spend- 


192 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


ing her life at Dene Royal, had visions of going abroad, 
taking a flat in town. The war, however, put a stop to the 
first of these aspirations, George put his foot down upon the 
other. His place, and of course her place, was at home in 
days such as those which had come upon them. “ There’s 
a great deal too much hysteria, running about, as it is.” 
That was what he said, with some truth. 

It was natural that after this Peggy, as she was not so 
foolish as to revolt openly against her husband, should re- 
volt against Mary. It began insidiously. Peggy was never 
cross or defiant. But she would invite quite a number 
of people up from Cottingham for lunch, and then just as 
they were due, apologize to “ Mary darling ” for having 
quite forgotten to tell her they were coming. If Mary 
spoke of asking any of the relations or family friends to 
stay, she would say : “ Oh, but Mary darling, do you mind, 
not just that week, it’s the only chance the Sittingtons have, 
on their way down from Scotland, and I do feel I ought to 
ask them. Of course they will blame poor little me if I 
don’t ! ” Or “ There’s my cousin, Bertie Herries, poor 
boy, it’s his last chance before he goes out, and Teddy 
French coming for the flower show — I’m so sorry, but I 
promised” 

Mary was terribly hampered in this insidious warfare, 
this nibbling away at her line — ^which took the form of re- 
adjusting bedrooms and furniture, the hours of meals 
“ only just for a day or two ” — ^by her reputation for 
selflessness. Mary had always been so sweet, giving in when 
there was nobody to oppose her. She would lose everything 
if she once started fighting against her sister-in-law. 

George could not have said what was wrong. He sup- 
posed it was a case of, “ Oh, you women ! You’re always 
quarreling ! ” as Uncle Roger would have said. 

Still, there was one little sneaking trick of Peggy’s which 
galled him almost as much as it galled Mary. She would be 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


193 


arranging some gaiety, issuing some invitation, then break 
off suddenly and exclaim : “ Oh, but I forgot ! Mary, dear, 
do forgive me. I hope you don’t mind — will it be quite 
convenient for you?” She would look at Mary beseech- 
ingly, then turn to her own friends and add, oh, so sweetly : 
“ I’m no good at housekeeping, you know ; my sister-in-law 
looks after everything. They would never trust me to do 
anything, poor little me. And Mary is so practical.” 

The tone of that “ so practical ” was beyond words, and 
Mary would feel the hot, slow color burn into her cheeks ; 
even George realized that this sort of thing never happened 
save when there were people there — people who thought 
Peggy was put upon because she was small, had no idea of 
her talent for spending her own allowance and all the house- 
keeping money upon clothes; and still being in debt to her 
dressmaker; while at no other time was Mary considered, 
let alone consulted, by young Mrs. D’Eath. 

George was seriously put’ out by his wife’s attitude. The 
cutting away of Vera’s and Irene’s shares from the family 
finances had already crippled him. If Mary set up house 
for herself at Buttons he did not know how he could pos- 
sibly hope to carry through all his improvements. 

He had an idea that the one thing was to put any matter 
plainly — speak out, even to a woman ; and that, upon doing 
this, the state of mind known as seeing sense ” must auto- 
matically result. He placed his own position very plainly 
before his wife. You must keep in with Mary ; I can’t do 
without Mary,” he ended by saying ; then reddened under the 
hard innocence of his Peggy’s stare, her inevitable inquiry : 
** My dear George, whatever have I done now ? ” — most 
often accompanied by the remark that she was sure that she 
was “ a great deal better tempered with Mary ” than he was. 

This was true enough. George’s temper was not what 
it used to be when he had nothing worse than international 
troubles to worry him, and he vented it on the one member 


194 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


of the family whom he believed that he could trust not to 
make a scene. He was perfectly well aware that Mary 
looked on his ill-humor as the result of liver, for she fol- 
lowed her mother’s formula for all masculine aberrations 
by suggesting a pill. Peggy’s attitude showed neither 
temper nor liver — besides, women were not supposed to 
suffer from either. George had a trick of saying “ women,” 
or “ you women ” in a way that was exactly like old Roger 
Colburn, who always declared that he would have divorced 
his wife if she had come down to breakfast in her dressing- 
gown, or opened the Morning Post, “messing it all up in 
the way you women have,” before he had found time to 
read it. 

As to Mary, for the first time in her life she was un- 
happy, felt herself at a disadvantage, and this alone puzzled 
her, made her uncomfortable. From the very beginning she 
had been the one to miss her father. He was part of the 
portrait of herself. She was as incomplete without him as 
the poseur in the early Victorian photograph without the 
Family Bible or album upon which to rest a negligent hand. 
He had served as a peg for those garlands of filial affection 
and self-sacrifice which it had been his delight to weave. 
Now, however, under the snick of her sister-in-law’s 
honeyed malice, she began to think of him with real affec- 
tion. So long as he had been there her place was secure ; 
consideration, peace, respect, an accepted part of everyday 
life. 

It was a pity that her letters at this time never reached 
her father, for they showed some realization of him as an 
individual, not merely an appendage. 

The fact was that she had addressed them as directed to 
Hugh D’Eath, Esq., c/o Mr. Whitacre, whom she inno- 
cently imagined to be the owner of the hydropathic estab- 
lishment, and the super-astute German authorities — ^having 
early discovered that there was no one of the name of 
D’Eath staying at Nauheim— confiscated, not only them, 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


195 

but all the other letters arriving for, or despatched by, the 
unfortunate Mr. Whitacre. 

In any case, even had he received those letters, D’Eath 
would have heard nothing of the latest worry which had 
overtaken the family at Dene Royal: a worry that, for a 
while at least, overtopped everything else — the awful, the 
inexplicable, the absolute disappearance of his youngest 
daughter at the end of the summer holidays, during her 
transit from home to school. 

It is certain that at this time Mary was genuinely anxious 
to spare her father any fresh anxiety. Perhaps, in addition 
to this, though she did not in the least realize it — for she 
never thought of reproaching herself about anything. 
** After all, one can only do one’s best,” was her placid 
creed — ^her conscience felt sore regarding the attitude she 
had taken up respecting those holidays, the affectionate 
interest with which her father regarded his youngest 
daughter. 

But let the reason be what it might, it is certain that no 
one of her letters touched on this new trouble; also that 
she had some reason to pride herself upon her reticence, 
for there is no doubt that they all went through a rather 
awful period of blank helplessness, reached a state of des- 
peration in which, if it had not been for Aunt Caroline’s 
firm attitude, her reiterated assertion that anything — any- 
thing — and even Aunt Caroline had read about the white 
slave traffic — was better for a young girl than to have her 
name made public before it reached the “ a marriage has 
been arranged ” stage, they might have appealed to the 
agony column of The Times, to detectives, to Scotland 
Yard. As a matter of fact, George did go up to London 
for this last special purpose. But he was still hesitating 
how to put the matter in a light compatible with the dignity 
of the family — for though he pooh-poohed Aunt Caroline 
he felt exactly as she did concerning his female relations — 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


196 

when he received a telegram from Mary telling him that 
she had heard from Susie herself ; that, although she gave 
no address, she declared herself well, and added that she 
did not intend to return home, let alone go back to school. 

They had been really frightened for her; now they were 
furiously angry. The memory of all they had feared, of 
every telegram which had passed between Dene Royal and 
Susie’s school — ^the way in which they had scanned the 
papers for a ‘‘ found murdered ” or “ drowned,” hung upon 
that twist of the drive which gave the first glimpse of a 
telegraph boy — enraged them. Peggy declared they would 
all much rather have heard that the child was dead. 

“ There are worse things than death,” remarked Harold 
sententiously, and here Peggy agreed with him. 

“ Better be dead than bored ! ” That was what she said ; 
then yawned and added that she supposed that she might 
as well go to bed, as there was nothing in the world to do, 
though it was scarcely ten o’clock. 

Her small imagination was stimulated by the thought of 
what Susie might be “ up to.” She herself had no courage 
for adventure, was far too calculating, too fond of comfort ; 
but she reflected, quite coolly and with relish, upon the sort 
of scrape in which the young girl might have become in- 
volved: felt herself thrill with an excitement which was 
half malice, half an envious and lascivious desire for adven- 
ture without danger. 

Anyhow, apart from the fact that it amused her to see 
her husband and his family so put about, she was sorry that 
the “ little spitfire,” as she called Susie, had gone. There 
was, anyhow, some sort of life in the house so long as she 
was there, she thought ; and truly enough that first evening 
when Susie came flaming back from Cromer had started an 
almost unbroken series of ** rows,” " scenes,” lasting right 
up to the twenty-first of September, when the holidays 
reached their end. 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


Susie had tried to infect the family with some of her own 
furious anxiety in regard to her father; finding that they 
would not be roused, her impatience, her contempt were 
beyond all words. When she declared that he might very 
well be shot as a spy, left to starve, forced to fight, George 
told her that those sort of things were, simply, not done: 
and after all he ought to know something of the Hague 
Convention, the position of non-combatants in the time of 
war; the moral code which governed Europe. 

Of course in one way they were anxious about their 
father. Mary could not but remember what Sir Humphrey 
had said, and what that one letter from Nauheim had 
reiterated on the subject of worry and shock. But Susie's 
impatience had only set them the more solidly in the mold 
of their belief that everything would turn out all right in 
the end. '' For God's sake do something," Susie would 
cry, and then the answer would come, with that admirable 
patience which made it so exasperating: 

“ My dear child, what else can be done ? " Had not 
Kiddington written to a cousin of his in the Foreign Office 
who had promised to try and get news, and did not every 
one know that public men must not be worried or fussed? 

Then Mary would say : “ Really, my dear Susie, one 
would think that you imagined you were the only one of 
the family to trouble about dear father ; when I'm sure that 
we none of us think about anything else." 

It is very certain that Susie was more than unreasonable. 
She would go out and about among the workpeople and 
tenants, who inflamed her with dreadful prognostications, 
all the more dreadful because of the stolidity of those who 
uttered them. Then she would come home and find the 
family seated around the luncheon table or having tea in 
the garden and — staring at them with crimson face, wide, 
hot blue eyes, something aggressive in the very set of her 
shoulders — exclaim : 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


198 

** Well ! Upon my word ! How you can! ** 

After all, how was it possible that they should not? One 
cannot live without food, and it is no special sign of heart- 
lessness to continue to have it served in the usual fashion. 
Nor would it have helped their father had they ceased to 
sleep in their beds, though that also was what Susie fell 
foul of — It beats me how you can sleep in your beds 
thinking of him.” 

On the twenty-first Vera was going up to London and 
she took Susie with her, to the intense relief of all con- 
cerned. Susie’s last words were : “ I don’t want ever to 
see the place or any one of you again until father comes 
home. I can stand people without brains or without heart, 
but people with neither are absolutely the limit ! ” 

“ She wants a good whipping and a week of bread and 
water, that’s the only thing for her,” remarked George as 
he turned away from the front door. They had been will- 
ing to forget and forgive, were all gathered together to see 
Susie oflF. George actually held a tip ready in his proflfered 
hand. But Susie, very busy saying good-by to the dogs, 
had not appeared to notice either him or his hand ; and now 
he slipped the despised sovereign back into his pocket — it 
was all the harder because he had wondered if half would 
not have been quite enough in war-time. Mary’s sheeplike 
face was blank with amazement while she hung for a 
moment, her hands still outstretched, her cheek proffered, 
as it had been for her little sister’s farewell kiss. It was 
simply beyond her that any one could speak as Susie had 
spoken, part from them in anger. It was like that dreadful 
** letting the sun go down upon your wrath ” — which, after 
all, does not make life half so uncomfortable, at least for 
others, as getting up in a bad temper. 

George hoped that no one had seen his attempt at recon- 
ciliation. But of course Peggy, who saw everything, 
realized in a moment what had happened, 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


199 

“ You needn’t worry yourself, my dear,” she assured 
him. “ Susie’s got something like twenty pounds on her 
person at the present moment. She filled up the savings 
bank form more than a week ago and drew out all her 
money when we went into Chingford for the fish yes- 
terday.” 

The mistress escorting the girls to school was timed to 
be at Paddington at twenty to four, half an hour before 
the train went out, so that she might have plenty of time 
to collect her charges. 

Vera and her sister arrived at the station a few minutes 
before three. That did not give them the chance of doing 
anything together and yet it seemed a long time for Vera 
— with her long list of commissions — to sit idle in the sta- 
tion, merely waiting; and here Susie supported her. 

“ What’s the good of wasting your time like that ? Why 
can’t I have some tea by myself and then stay in the 
waiting-room until old Mother Craig comes ? ” she inquired ; 
and really there did seem nothing against it. 

** Well, anyhow, send a postcard when you get there, or 
else Mary will be in a fuss.” That was the one stipulation 
which Vera made; rather half-heartedly because, now that 
she was married, she realized how much her eldest sister 
had always bored her. 

There was no anxiety felt at Dene Royal when the prom- 
ised postcard failed to appear. Susie never had any man- 
ners, and, anyhow, she would be obliged to write on Sunday. 

But on Monday there was still no word : and it was only 
on Tuesday, when a rather stiff letter arrived from the 
head-mistress — saying that she had been expecting every 
day to hear why Miss Susie D’Eath had not been among 
the girls who left Paddington by the four-ten train, as 
arranged, and the reason of her failure to return to school 
on the day specified — ^that the family even thought of there 
being anything amiss. 


200 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


After this it was no wonder that the whole household at 
Dene Royal was in an uproar, or what corresponded to the 
uproar of a more exuberant class. The dreadful part of 
the whole affair lay in the limited amount of steps which 
could be taken without publicity. Even the telegrams were 
so guarded in tone as to be almost unintelligible. “ You’ll 
never get any one to marry that girl if it once comes out 
that she’s been gadding about, all over the country, alone, 
or with the Lord only knows who ! ” declared old Roger 
Colburn. And though Mary said, ‘‘You forget that girls 
have something else to think about besides marriage nowa- 
days, Uncle Roger,” in their heart of hearts they all agreed 
with him. 

Horace D’Eath expressed the same idea when he said, 
“ There must be no scandal, I’ve got my own girls to think 
of ! ” — snorting with scorn when Harold murmured some- 
thing about “ not so much as a sparrow falling to the 
ground.” He resented nothing more than his curate’s habit 
of dragging in the Bible; besides, in this case, the quota- 
tion was so curiously in-apropos. There was no question 
of Susie “ falling ” — the very word was unfortunate — ^but 
only of what people might think. And, after all, though 
there might be no uncertificated death of sparrows, there 
was a certain soiling of doves, scarcely spoken of, but still 
to be reckoned with. 

As to Susie herself ! Well, there must be something in 
heredity when two members of one family, in direct suc- 
cession, make up their minds so oddly and decisively not 
to do that which is expected of them — in fact, not to “ go 
to Jericho.” 


CHAPTER XXII 


O’Hagan brooded over his muscles like a mother over her 
babe. With shirt-sleeves rolled up to his shoulders he 
tightened his biceps, watched them swell after half an 
hour’s bout with the clubs, caressed them, almost kissed 
them. By the very way in which he moved it became 
apparent that his body was once more growing to be a 
delight to him. He even knocked off that one nightly pint. 
His “old woman” found him captious in the matter of 
food, refusing anything that “ swills yer innards,” or runs 
to fat. He hardly spoke; his little eyes were fixed and 
watchful. It seemed as though they were set — with the 
heavy, slow brain at the back of them — ^upon one distant 
objective. “ O’Hagan looks like a fighting cock with his 
beak to a chalked line. I wonder if he thinks — ^but it’s 
impossible, I’ve told him, times without number, that 
he’ll never be fit for the ring again,” remarked Tre- 
herne. 

O’Hagan’s immediate “ chalk-line,” however, had noth- 
ing to do with “the ring;” for the moment he was en- 
grossed in the business of getting himself into “ the pink,” 
but it was beyond this that he looked. 

At last he was satisfied. “ There’s silk for you, and the 
right stuff ’neath it,” he said, and stretched his bare arm 
to Miss Villiers, Nurse Fenton’s assistant. 

With an air of melancholy absorption peculiar to her she 
ran her pointed fingers up and down the smooth white arm 
— the skin as finef as a woman’s, almost without a hair — 
felt the swelling muscles. 

“ Good ! ” she said, “ and now what are you going to 
do, eh, O’Hagan?” 


201 


202 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


^ “ Have a smack at that there b y Kaiser.” 

They had not expected this. Somehow no one had 
thought for a moment that the ex-prize fighter might join 
a regiment of fighting men. But this was only because 
they were not equal to the task of seeing things as they 
appeared to O’Hagan. He might don the uniform — 
cavalry, artillery, infantry — but never for a moment would 
he be that microcosm of empire, just a private soldier. For 
too long had he held his place as the center, the very 
reason, of the ring. He could not belong to any regiment, 
he would be it. At the very thought of a fight the old 
days were with him once more, that sense of excitement 
so keen that it was icy ; a feeling of mastery, which carried 
with it the assurance, the deliberation, the calm of a god. 
Oh, yes, “ them there gory Germans ’ull learn a thing or 
two if they wunst find themselves up against the Wapping 
Wonder!” 

That was why he was so engrossed in himself. It was 
pride not humility which drove him to such a perfection of 
pinkness. The idiots who enrolled him might not realize 
what they had got; but he would see to it that they had 
the best, at its very best. 

He did not boast nor talk; but deep in his slow moving 
mind was the conviction that if only the authorities could 
get hold of a few men like him — and, mind you, there were 
very few of them — the trouble would be at an end in no 
time. 

" It’s not only the things as a chap like me, as knows all 
the ropes, is up to doin’ on,” he said, “ it’s the style o’ the 
whole b ^y thing.” 

When he went up to the nearest City recruiting office to 
offer himself he was wonderful to behold. His straight, 
neutral tinted hair, plastered flat to his head, shone like a 
casque: he was raw with close shaving, the back of his 
neck showed pink above the velvet collar of his blue pilot 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


203 


coat. It was sheer joy for him to stand before the mirrors 
in the shop windows, and note the easy breadth of his own 
shoulders, the spring he gave as he moved catlike in his 
shiny boots, swinging to and fro upon the ball of his foot. 
No courtesan could have felt greater joy in herself, loved 
herself better, thrilled with a more insolent confidence in 
her own supremacy. 

And then they turned him down. 

They turned him down at the Tower, and he went on to 
the recruiting station at the Mansion House, feeling be- 
wildered, a little stunned, but nothing more. 

Once more he was refused. 

He tried the Strand, and again the same thing happened. 

It was too late for anything more than day. The fact 
that he did not end it dead drunk testified to his belief that 
the doctors were mere idiots. Though there was the look 
of a stricken beast — which does not know how or why it 
has been hurt — upon his face as he set the supper that 
night: silent, absorbed, breathing on the spoons, polishing 
them as in a dream. 

That very evening a man had been fished out of the 
river. For close on three hours every one had made sure 
that he was dead ; then he struggled back to life. Treherne, 
his face drawn with fatigue, was telling D’Eath of the 
aflFair — which accounted for his own late appearance — 
when O’Hagan, coming in with the beer, made his one 
contribution to that night’s conversation. 

** There’s some folks as never do know when they’re 
well off. S’elp me, Gawd, but if a chap’s once dead he’d 
best stay dead, fur ’isself an’ all concarned.” 

He said nothing of his day’s endeavor. Perhaps this 
showed that somewhere, deep down in his inner conscious- 
ness, was a vague, dreadful doubt, a fear that what Doctor 
Treherne had said respecting the ring might equally well 
apply to the army; though not for a moment would he 


204 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


allow this fear to form itself to a distinct thought, let 
alone words, added no explanation to his request for 
another day off. By this time he was like a man with a 
cancer who is determined to know nothing for cer- 
tain. 

He was at it again early next morning. 

By the end of the day he had been refused by practically 
every recruiting station in London. He, Michael O’Hagan, 
who worshiped his body, who can again and again — in those 
old training days — had put it before every temptation of 
wine and women. He — to be turned down as unfit! 

No one — unless it may be some woman who has known 
what it is to have her love, the beauty which had seemed 
sure as life, counted for nought — can guess what this meant 
to him. 

It was the destruction of the temple. 

And, God! to think of the squat, knock-kneed, blear- 
eyed, bandy-legged, misbegotten scuts that were taken in 
his place! 

It was little wonder that he went “ on the booze ” for a 
solid week, left the Pier Head household in charge of his 
“ old woman ” ; that he ran amuck in the Turk’s Head, and 
dislocated the potman’s shoulder in showing what he 
could do. 

“ He’s in that way as ’e’d be tikin’ up wiv anuvver lidy 
if I was married ter ’im; which, thank Gawd, as I ain’t, 
an’ none o’ my children born in wedlock neiver.” 

“ Why, if you were married ? ” inquired D’Eath. 

“ Well, fur one thing the married ’uns don’t keep their 
places as I keep mine, nor feed their men as I feeds mine 
neiver. The married ’uns is that certain, male an’ female, 
as they fink anyfink’s good enufF. I won’t deny as O’Agan 
goes oflF the lines a bit now an’ agin. But ’e don’t not stay 
off, nuffink ter speak on. An’ fur why? ’E knows if ’e 
did as ’e’d find me gorn, done a bolt, ’ousekeepin’ along 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 205 

o’ anuwer gent when ’e come back. An’ the children too, 
they’re mine not ’is, you mind that, an’ e’s real set on the 
childer. Marry ’im ! That’s wot all them religious coves 
is round me ter do, but I knows better. ’E’s been a good 
man ter me an’ where’s the use o’ brikin’ hup an ’appy 
’ome? That’s wot I tells ’em. They means well, like ennuf, 
but they don’t not know nuffin’ o’ ’uman natchure, them 
wiv their parlors an’ ’armoniums.” She was buoyant, 
hopeful — a “ glutton ” for work, as they said of her man 
in the ring — but for all that her shrewd face grew a 
little drawn and set before O’Hagan came back 
this time, took up the thread of a normal life once 
more. 

When he did at last reappear it seemed as though he had 
dropped to pieces inside his silk,” which hung in leaden 
tinted bags under his chin and round his eyes. 

He was very silent. Even when Alf called to say good-by 
on the eve of his departure to France he volunteered no 
remark, merely appraised the squat little figure with one 
long contemptuous stare, then moved to the window and 
spat out of it. 

There was a man working in the tiny strip of garden 

below. “ By gums ! if yer gob on me again, yer ” he 

began furiously : looked up, saw who it was and bent again 
in sullen silence to his work. O’Hagan had never been 
a good man to meddle with, he was worse than ever 
now. 

D’Eath went downstairs and out to the door with Alf. 
“ They’re bofe cornin’ ter the station ter see me off,” said the 
little man ; there was an odd look of dazed bewilderment in 
his eyes as though, somehow or other, life had got beyond 
him. “ Bofe of ’em. It mikes a man feel sorter small don’t 
it, them bein’ so friendly : sorter as if ’e weren’t not worth 
fightin’ about. But wiv them there women, it’s the unex* 
pectedness o’ ’em as gets a chap in the wind. I suppose, 


2o6 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


now, yer wouldn’t not think o’ cornin’ too? Ter ’ave 
some’un o’ me own sect, doncher see.” 

He hesitated with an anxious breath as though the thing 
had indeed, and quite literally, got him in the wind; while 
D’Eath, readily enough, gave his promise to be at the sta- 
tion, to speed the parting hero, maintain the peace. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


It is needless to say that no one was satisfied by Susie’s 
assertion of well-being. The family retained its anxiety 
because it knew that it ought to be anxious — even the 
two cousins, who came to inquire regularly each morning, 
conscious of a thrill of hope that something really exciting 
might have happened. It was dreadful to think of any 
girl of Susie’s youth and inexperience alone in London. It 
would have been almost more dreadful to have heard of 

her going meekly back to school, but still Oh, well, 

it was dreadful, anyhow ! “ The uncertainty ! ” that’s what 
they all said ; while at the back of the mind of every one 
of them lay a resentful conviction that the creature was 
only too well able to take care of herself, though to con- 
fess as much would have seemed a slur on them all; stood 
for a refutation of that principle which supposed a girl 
of Susie’s class far less capable of exacting respect, hold- 
ing her own, than any laborer’s daughter of her age, or less, 
setting out for her first situation among strangers. 

Irene, alone, showed indifference. We’ve all got our 
own lives to live,” that was what she said, meaning that 
she did not intend to be disturbed, to waste her time over 
anything less than “ a cause.” Perhaps Vera was the most 
harrowed, partly because of certain things which her young 
husband had told her — simply to show how much he knew 
— partly because of the fact, which no one would ever 
allow her to forget, that it was she who had left Susie alone 
at Paddington. 

If they had only known, if they could have so much 
as guessed, that the truant’s plans had but little to do with 
England, let alone London, realized anything of the cool 

207 


2o8 


WHILE THERE^S LIFE 


decision, the secrecy with which she had set to work to 
carry them out, they would have been appalled, outraged by 
the deceit involved in such a display of character, such 
reticence, above all, such competence; while there is no 
doubt that the relations of Joan of Arc in the fifteenth 
century would have felt much as they felt in the twentieth, 
for the resentment of the chicks against the duckling is 
unchanging. 

And yet how could they guess? After all, one can but 
prophesy a little in advance of what one knows, and this 
was beyond them. They could not have attempted what 
Susie attempted, simply because they would never have 
cared enough to think of it, plan it. They were of the 
wrong age, a year or so too early; even Irene with hef 
wearisome modernity. For the whole thing — ^vain attempt 
though it might be — was characteristic of nothing in the 
world save that amazing mixture of romance, chivalry, 
hard horse-sense, epic deeds and clipped, indifferent talk 
which represents the extreme youth of the amazing age in 
which we live. 

After all, the round swing of the pendulum had brought 
Susie nearer to her father than to any other member of her 
family; he, at least, had dreamt of romance, adventure. 

Perhaps she realized this; perhaps, intermingled with 
her affection, was the feeling that he gave her some sort 
of an excuse, acted as a species of springboard, for her 
own love of adventure. Anyhow, the great scheme hung 
round and upon him. She was going to see for herself 
how he was treated, join him at Nauheim. It was a sort 
of female knight errantry, and yet it was less than that, 
for mingled with it was the thought of what “ sucks ” it 
would be to Mary and the others; particularly Mary, who 
had always behaved as though her father were her own 
private possession, close-cultured to her liking. 

Susie’s motives might have been mixed, all motivjes 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


209 

are; but her air was clear, narrowing down to one fine, 
intense point, concentrated upon Nauheim. 

Not for one single moment did she conjecture anything 
like failure. She had a theory, part character, part the 
result of an ultra-modern education — discouraging any 
weak over-confidence in Providence — that one could always 
do anything which one really set one’s mind to. She 
simply did not see herself as failing. So far her life, her 
aims had always been within the scope of her endeavor. 
This had given her time to grow, but she never had learnt, 
never could learn, anything by it ; it is only from the rebuffs 
of life that we do this. 

Anyhow, she had never ** muffed ” an exam, yet, failed 
to get the better of an antagonistic mistress. She had led 
every girl in her school. Any forces which were opposed 
against her she had despised ; some she had left untouched 
simply because she realized them as part of the stupid 
routine of everyday life, not worth troubling about, like 
that silly custom of wearing skirts — ^tolerated because so 
easily discarded. 

Still, she had her weakness, the weakness of all cock- 
sure youth — a poor idea of values. And perhaps this is 
not, in the end, a disadvantage — at any rate, so far as the 
peace of mind of the elders is concerned; for the steady, 
outer pressure of ways and means, pros and cons, addition 
and subtraction, acts upon it much as the pressure of 
atmosphere upon all inhabitants of this terrestrial globe. 
Without it, how far might not youth jump over the moon, 
missing firm earth altogether upon its return? 

The hand which rocks the cradle may rule the world — 
sentimentally speaking ; but the hand which holds the purse- 
string is more immediately efficacious. 

Susie’s first qualm came when she went to Cooks’ office 
and discovered how much it might cost her to get to 
Nauheim. 


210 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


Up to this her path had been sunny, uncheckered by the 
faintest cloud. She had simply waited until her sister was 
well out of the way; put her large box in the cloakroom, 
gone to the waiting-room, taken a packet of hairpins out of 
her little suit-case — in which, in common with all boys and 
girls returning to school, she carried the necessities for that 
night — ^and for the first time in her life did up her hair — 
deftly, with immense decision. 

She had bought the hair-pins in Chingford that last day 
she drove there with Peggy, drew her savings out of the 
bank. The fact that young Mrs. D’Eath represented these 
as amounting to twenty pounds, instead of ten, as was the 
case, was merely the outcome of that lady’s desire to im- 
prove on any sort of a thrill. 

The weary-eyed, untidy women who sat round the walls 
of the waiting-room, stuffy and travel-stained, the crumby 
mouthed whiny children — every one of whom seemed to 
have absorbed something of the dreary atmosphere of the 
place, to be specifically those sort of people one does find 
in waiting-rooms and nowhere else — watched her with dull 
curiosity, resentful of her bright, clear-cut youth, the vigor 
and certainty of her every movement; while more than 
one greasy complexioned woman drew out a powder-puff 
or handkerchief and wiped it surreptitiously over her 
face. 

“ Paint,” whispered one to another, and knew as she 
spoke that she lied, that the fresh color in the girl’s face 
owed nothing to art. 

As she put on her hat Susie regarded herself with 
some complacency. Her head felt curiously top-heavy, but 
with her hair twisted up under her hat she looked at least 
nineteen ; her white silk blouse, with its loose, turned-down 
collar, was fresh and uncrumpled, her neatly laced brown 
boots polished to perfection ; she drew a pair of clean doe- 
skin gloves from her bag and felt herself ready for any- 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


211 


thing, with a faint touch of scorn at the thought of how 
fussed and flurried Mary always looked after a journey. 
The great principle of Susie’s school had always been a 
neat efflciency; it was not much, but it gave any girl a 
good foundation to work upon. Centuries might have sepa- 
rated her from Mary, even from Irene with her crude self- 
assertion ; for never have all the ideals of femininity shuffled 
themselves so rapidly as during the time that Susie D’Eath 
was, with the cool deliberation of her kind, passing from 
childhood to womanhood. 

Feeling perfectly grown up, sure of herself, she took 
a taxi to Victoria and engaged a room at the Grosvenor 
Hotel for that night. Anyhow, this brought her so much 
nearer to her goal. 

It was after this that she went to Cooks’ offices, gathered 
all particulars as to the method of obtaining a passport; 
the necessary photographs, the possible route. As Cooks’ 
people seemed to regard Nauheim as impossible — Flushing 
and Wiesbaden, which she had coolly counted upon, out 
of the question — she gave in to what she regarded as the 
fussiness of all real grown-ups, and booked to Paris. It 
was an awful way round, but from there it would, of 
course, be easy to get on; it seemed to her, thinking over 
journeys she had heard of, that every one started for every- 
where from Paris. Her complete ignorance stood her in 
the place of courage. “Not get to Nauheim?” she would 
have said. “ I’d like to know what there is to stop me ! ” 
In her own way she was just as conceited as the rest of the 
family; she did not actually think herself great, but she 
was unaware of any one greater — unless it were General 
French and Joffre, and, anyhow, they were too big to count, 
like other suns. 

She had her photograph taken, and got her passport. 
At that time private travelers were interfered with as little 
as possible, and there could be no possible reason for block- 


212 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


ing a quiet, self-reliant young person on her way to join 
her father in France. 

Though Cooks’ people could not, or would not, book her 
to Nauheim, they had given her a little book with maps 
which marked out the entire route, via Metz and Wies- 
baden; and the fact of only having paid for a ticket to 
Paris made her feel rich again, though the hotel bill gave 
her another qualm. 

She had a good crossing, the only person she spoke to 
on the boat being a young man in mufti. There were a 
great many young men in uniform, and she despised him 
a little on account of his civilian clothes. But as he had 
a chair next to hers and lent her half his rug — for all 
her efficiency she had not thought to provide herself with 
one, and the day was chilly with a high wind and racing 
waves — she felt that it was only right to be civil. 

She patronized him a great deal; and yet, in looking 
back upon this first meeting, her cheeks burned to think 
how much, despite all her patronage, she had told him about 
herself, while he had told her nothing whatever. In his 
own way he seemed as certain of the world and his own 
place in it as she did, and she wondered why. He could not 
be up to much, or he would have joined the Army like all 
those nice boys she had met at Cromer. 

She as good as told him so, even wondered whether, 
despite the rug, she might not go downstairs and extract 
a white feather from one of the pillows. 

“ It’s the sort of time when every one ought to be doing 
something. It beats me how any man, who is a man, can 
bear to be out of it now — the greatest war the world has 

ever known ! If only I ” She paused ; he was looking 

at her critically, not in the least shamefaced. 

“ I say, do you know that your hair’s coming down,” 
he said; and then added, kindly, as Susie put up one hand 
to the heavy coil — flushing crimson with a sense of un- 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


213 


utterable shame — that he supposed it took some time getting 
into the way of being “ put up ” : “I know if I change the 
parting in my hair it’s the very deuce, just to begin with, 
you know,” he added cheerfully; while Susie, in a fury, 
wondered why in the world he should imagine his wretched 
parting mattered to her, mattered to any one. 

At Calais she lost sight of him, gave him no second 
thought; for though Cromer had, in its own way, been 
exciting Calais was marvelous, with its crowds, its air of 
fierce, concentrated busyness. 

To Susie it seemed as though she were suddenly launched 
forward upon the outer rim of some immense, swiftly turn- 
ing wheel, the further curve of which was far beyond her 
vision; that she was in an exhilarating fashion part of a 
movement more stupendous than anything which had ever 
gone before : far more stupendous than it had seemed when 
she spoke of it to the young man on the steamer. 

She felt so small amid the surging preoccupied crowds 
that she was convinced of her perfect freedom to do as she 
liked, go where she liked; and this, though it might have 
terrified a more timid nature, gave her a feeling of security. 
The sense of her infinitesimal place in this immense new 
world did not humiliate her, it took a great deal — apart 
from personal matters like her hair coming down — ^to 
humiliate Susie D’Eath at this time; rather it gave her 
a sense of pride, such as, were it a sentient thing, 
might be felt by some tiny cog in an immense bulk of 
machinery. 

At any rate, she was in it. She was ** doing her bit ” — 
already the odious catch-phrase had sprung into being, along 
with “business as usual,” and that lying proverb against 
swopping horses in the midst of the stream. 

She was very tired by the time she reached Paris, left 
her bag at a small hotel conveniently close to the Gare du 
Nord. And yet she would not rest ; she could not afford to 


214 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


stay more than one night, and even she realized that there 
was still a great deal to be arranged. 

By dint of persistent questioning of people who did not 
seem to understand their own language, she made her way 
to Cooks’ offices : there she met with what might have been 
described as the first bone in her filleted fish. 

It was perfectly impossible for any one to get through to 
Germany at this juncture. There could be no question of it. 
Cooks’ people were very decided, much more decided than 
they had been in London : still they did not shake her con- 
fidence, though in truth they gave her a jar. 

Wearied out by her persistence they at last sent her to 
the British Consulate. But by the time Susie found her way 
to the Rue Faubourg St. Honore it was almost dark, far too 
late to do anything that night, and she went back to the 
hotel: then, realizing that she dare not venture on dinner, 
for her rapidly diminishing finances frightened her — setting 
her teeth fiercely over the realization that things were not 
going to be so easy as she had thought — she started out 
again in search of a small cafe where she could have some 
chocolate and rolls. 

She found a place which looked quiet and might have 
enjoyed her meal, for the people amused her, had not a 
middle-aged man, after persistent staring and smiling, got 
up with his glass in his hand, and, sitting down at her table, 
tried to enter into conversation with her. She was not 
frightened, only angry; she did not realize all it meant, but 
it was “ cheek,” and she told him what she thought of him 
in her choicest French. All the same, she burnt her tongue 
by a too rash attack upon her scalding chocolate so that it 
smarted for the rest of the evening; while the rough feel of 
a scalded tongue for ever served to remind her of some- 
thing so unutterably beastly ” in the dapper stranger’s 
gaze that poor Major Gilbey’s kiss seemed, by comparison, 
pure and fresh as some celestial salute. 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


215 


Susie slept soundly, though the sound of the traffic over 
cobbled streets ran like an accompaniment through all her 
dreams; and when the next day dawned in a flood of bril- 
liant sunshine, she was, once more, completely confident. 

The first thing was to go to the Consulate. She went, 
and she waited — waited — until she half forgot what she 
was waiting for. 

The room into which she had been shown was crowded 
to suffocation. For the first time in her life Susie was con- 
scious of a strange uneasiness at the thought of her own 
small place in this hot and irritated throng, amid this mass 
of people who might be every bit as determined to do the 
thing they wished to do, as she herself was determined to do 
the thing she wished — meant to do. 

The resentful, half animal suspicion with which they 
looked round at each other every time a fresh name was 
called was evidence of an antagonism which hung like an 
actual presence in the close room. Now and then some one 
spoke to her, asked her a question, but she took very little 
notice of what was said: it seemed as though all trivial 
doubts, uncertainties, were floated away like straws upon 
the stream of her immense determination; pushed aside by 
the almost fierce hold which she kept upon herself. 

Even what the doorkeeper said about ‘‘ shady charac- 
ters,” when she expressed a wish to wait in the passage 
where it was cooler, appeared to pass her by at the time: 
though the meaning of it all bit in, returned again and 
again, whenever she was nervous or depressed, for years to 
come, as, “ Is that how I really strike people ? ” 

It seemed as though that period of waiting would never 
end : children whimpered, feet shuffled ; a heavy haze of heat 
and dust thickened the air so that the whole scene appeared 
as unreal as a dream in which, through all one’s discomfort 
and fear, one is still aware that one is dreaming. 

After a while this effect was increased by the fact that 


2i6 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


she grew so numbed — ^huddled upon a hard chair, with her 
feet drawn up for safety beneath the lower rail — that she 
was half dead to the jostling crowd, which seemed as 
though it touched her through some thickness of felt or 
wadding. 

During the first half hour, each time the door opened 
she had felt confident that the name called must be her own ; 
while she glanced round her with a sort of scorn for those 
people who had allowed themselves to be kept waiting for 
so long. 

After a little while her nerves became strung to such a 
pitch she felt that, if the next name was not her own, she 
would shriek. 

Following upon this came a period of indifference and 
despair. When at last the summons did come, she was so 
deadened that she failed to move, might have missed her 
chance had it not been that the doorkeeper — peering through 
his spectacles at the paper he held in his hand — ^hesitating 
over the name, repeated it more than once, trying over a 
diversity of pronunciations, so odd that some one tittered 
and Susie moved stiffly from the room, her head held high, 
her face crimson. 

She had been so certain of success. “ One can do any- 
thing if one is only determined enough.” The brilliant 
morning had revived all her old belief ; and though the long 
wait had numbed her physically, it had not dimmed her 
faith. She saw one of the younger secretaries, but she 
would not even listen to what he said : youth was wonderful, 
but in an affair like, this youth was liable to error, did not 
count. Insisting, refusing to take “ no ” for an answer, she 
was passed on and on. If she had not been so young, so 
pretty, she, and her outrageous request, would have been 
treated with very scant ceremony. As it was, one man after 
another listened to what she had to say, glancing at her, 
smiling.^ A crowd is an ugly thing, even the individual 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


217 


members of it seem, after a while, to become tainted; here 
was something of the sort that they had not seen for days. 
On the whole the older, more responsible men were kinder 
than the young ones — it was a mere junior clerk who said 
the unforgettable, unforgivable thing. But all this kind- 
ness, this tolerance, this amusement stood for anything but 
success. Very slowly, very surely, it dawned upon Susie 
that it meant not taking her quite seriously, treating her as 
something of a joke — delightful, and yet a joke. 

When she at last succeeded in reaching the Consul him- 
self it was no better, worse even. If you went into Ger- 
many now, do you know what would happen to you? You’d 
be gobbled up — yes — gobbled up by the Germans — like Red 
Riding Hood by the wolf.” That was what he said; then he 
beckoned to a clerk, glanced at Susie, and murmured some- 
thing about “ a case for Mrs. Jervis.” 

She was shown back into the crowded waiting-room, 
told she must not go away on any account. She saw the 
clerk who escorted her speak to the man at the door, who 
glanced at her surlily, and felt as though she were a 
prisoner. 

By now the room was even more densely packed than it 
had been before, stiflingly hot. There was no chance of a 
seat. Trying to push her way to the window, it seemed 
as though the other applicants for passports had grown 
increasingly hostile. She had got her chance, what had she 
done with it? Why had she been sent back? She felt that 
she was suspected, and her cheeks burned. 

A white- faced youth at her side — with retreating chin and 
forehead, and a mouth like a wolf, full of strong, discolored 
teeth — who had been called to order for smoking, glanced 
at her sideways, and smirked; touched her with his sharp 
elbow. “ So they’ve got their knife into you too ? What 
’ave you been up to?” 

Susie, holding her head high, with flaming cheeks, did 


2i8 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


not answer. After a moment’s pause he went on with some 
suggestion, of which she could not quite follow the context; 
but it seemed to be based upon some plan whereby she 
should take a situation as a lady’s maid and find out where 
her mistress kept her jewels, sneak the keys so that he 
might have them copied. ‘‘ If we’ve both got to stay here, 
we might as well make something out of it,” she understood 
him to say; adding some confused words to the effect that 
she was a smart-looking girl, just the right sort.” But 
it was as difficult to follow his words — cockney English 
interspersed with French slang — as it would have been to 
determine his nationality, which appeared to have been lost 
in a cosmopolitanism of villainy. 

At length, in self-defense, Susie told him that she was 
trying to get to Germany, upon which he shouted with laugh- 
ter, drew the attention of the entire room upon her. “ But 
you must be mad — a fool ! ” he cried ; then added. “ Unless 
you also are a Boche.” 

This did for her. Her fair hair, her fresh skin damned 
her. She was a German, there was no mistake about that. 
If any one wondered why, in this case, she should have 
been waiting at the British Consulate, there was the answer 
ready in a moment. She was a spy, that’s what she was, a 
spy, like all the rest of that hated race. 

She had elbow-room enough after this; for one and all 
they drew away from her, glancing at her sideways, whis- 
pered, “ shooting out their lips.” 

At last her name was again called, and she was shown 
into a tiny box of a room where she found that Mrs. Jervis, 
of whom the Consul had spoken, waiting for her. So this 
was it. She — Susie D’Eath — was to be put in charge — not 
of the police, but far worse, far more humiliating — of this 
woman, a member of that “ Young Women’s Christian 
Association ” which Mary could not tolerate, because she 
declared that it put ideas into the servants’ heads. And 


WHILE THERE^S LIFE 


219 


why, why? Well, because the Consul thought — we all 
think,” she had the audacity to add, as though it had any- 
thing in the world to do with her — that Miss D’Eath would 
be better at home, and Mrs. Jervis had been given instruc- 
tions to see her off by the boat-train that night ; stay by her 
until this end had been accomplished. 

Susie was wild with rage. Still, the woman was stout 
and elderly, it would surely be easy enough to dodge her — 
to throw herself into the Seine, anything, anything would 
be preferable to the ignominy of being followed, guarded. 
But for all her bulk Mrs. Jervis was quick on her feet; and 
even Susie could not actually run through the streets of 
Paris. 

Still Mrs. Jervis could not handcuff or hold her, she 
could but follow; and follow she did when a new spurt of 
hope, or obstinacy, sent the girl careering from the Con- 
sulate to the British Embassy. 

Mrs. Jervis had sandwiches and ate them, stolidly, while 
she waited; for in her work among stray English girls in 
Paris she was always prepared against emergencies of this 
sort. Not for anything in the world would Susie have ac- 
cepted one, but her head was swimming. It was many 
hours since she had eaten; and her light “ petit dejeuner ” — 
no porridge, no eggs, no bacon, no anything — seemed cen- 
turies removed from the indrawn, hollow space which 
formed her body, the leaden, solid weight of her feet, the 
far-away emptiness of her head. 

From the very first it was evident that there was no 
chance of seeing His Excellency: but the private secretary 
might be able to spare them a moment when he had finished 
his lunch. Almost, as it seemed to Susie, she was getting 
used to being put off with the second best, almost humble, 
almost thankful. 

But even then, after waiting hours — ^years — the secretary 
was called off on some urgent business — “ having quite 


220 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


finished his lunch,” as Susie remarked bitterly — and it was 
one of the under-secretaries who saw them. 

He wore a light gray cutaway coat, buttoned in rather 
tight at the waist, where he bent a little as though nature 
had formed him for bows; his glossy hair and patent- 
leather boots struck Susie as being of an equal smooth 
shininess. She had an idea that because he was what she 
called a knut ” she would be able to do what she liked 
with him. As a matter of fact — though he evinced none of 
that almost affectionate jocularity which had so infuriated 
her, or solid, businesslike impassivity which had seemed 
the only alternative — ^he simply slid past her, smiled absent- 
mindedly when she spoke of Nauheim, shook his head and 
devoted his whole attention to what Mrs. Jervis found to 
say ; as though she were the person. 

Between anger, disappointment, hunger and desperate 
fatigue Susie was trembling from head to foot by the time 
that she once more emerged into the sunshine flooding the 
street. In a last bid for independence— -or was it the sick 
desperation of a creature which knows itself to be beaten, 
desires nothing on earth apart from the chance to creep 
away, hide itself in darkness and solitude — she turned upon 
the impassive woman at her side. 

‘‘ Now — now, you’ve got what you wanted, seen me 
beaten — ^think you’ve seen me beaten — perhaps you’ll leave 
me alone, stop following me — dogging me like this. I tell 
you I won’t have any more of it! I — I ” 

Her voice broke, a wave of blackness, punctuated by 
small yellow dots, surged up before her. All at once it 
seemed as though the wind changed; and though the sun 
still shone — as the first faintness swept past her she saw it, 
still clear and merciless, saw Mrs. Jervis’s pale, squareish 
face, and the green umbrella lined with white which she 
opened, held over her — she shivered. 

“ I’m going back to my hotel — you can go where you 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


221 


like. I ” In her despair she had put up one hand and 

hailed a crawling taxi, conscious the while that she ought to 
walk, couldn’t afford to drive. “ Ugh ! Now — now I shall 
— do — do— you — in the eye ! ” she added, as it drew up and 
she pitched forward, fumbling blindly for the handle of the 
door. 

“Allow me,” said Mrs. Jervis; helped her in, then 
stepped in after her and gave the driver his direction — in 
French, which even Susie recognized as atrocious. 

Susie never remembered very much of that drive back 
to the hotel, save that moving her swimming head uneasily 
— with a feeling as though it were too heavy for her neck — 
she felt it drawn to rest upon something warm, bony, and 
yet in a way comforting, which might or might not have 
been Mrs. Jervis’s shoulder; while, after a long space, she 
found herself lying on the bed in her own room, with the 
green outside shutters closed, while her enemy fed her with 
strong broth from a spoon; then — leaving her to fall in and 
out of a series of rather light-headed naps, confused dreams 
— fell to collecting her belongings, packing her suit-case. 

After a while the good woman murmured something 
about going to the station to see about the train, and crept 
from the room. “ Here’s my chance of escape,” thought 
Susie, and dragging herself into an upright position dropped 
her feet to the floor; feeling about for her shoes, so feebly 
that when, after a moment’s pause, she heard the key very 
gently turned in the lock outside she was conscious — as 
she dropped back on the bed, turning on her side, hugging 
the cool pillow — of no feeling of anger or outrage; noth- 
ing indeed but an intense relief at the realization of her 
own helplessness, the futility of any further effort, the pos- 
sibility of further sleep. 

When she awoke it was dark, the jalousies were thrown 
back, the sweet, dampish evening air streamed into the 
room; in the street below heavy motor lorries, vehicles of 


222 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


every description flowed past in an endless, turbulent stream, 
for the battle of the Aisne was in full swing, and men and 
cannon alike in urgent need of food. 

“You can’t start to-night, after all,” said Mrs. Jervis; 
“ the Calais route is closed ; you will have to go round 
by Dieppe, and there’s no train until five o’clock to-morrow 
morning. If you feel better now, don’t you think it would 
be a good thing to get up and come out and have some 
dinner, eh ? ” 

She had a slow, north-country voice, with a tonic burr 
in it ; there never could have been any one plainer, squarer, 
more uncompromisingly English, middle-class, respectable; 
her mouth was as firmly set within its straight, decorous 
bounds as her tight door-knocker of gray hair. It would, 
indeed, be a venturesome Lothario who would get up from 
his chair and speak to her to-night, thought Susie, feeling — 
in her weakness and lassitude — profoundly grateful for the 
fact. 

“ Anyhow,” she thought, with a sudden return of her 
native fairness and honesty, “ it can’t be much fun for her, 
after all ; and she has most awfully kind eyes.” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


Susie’s place was booked in the morning train, but Mrs. 
Jervis had been told that if she wished to be sure of it 
she ought to be there at least half an hour before it started. 
It seemed that she raked Susie out of bed much too early, 
and, protesting, she arrived at the Gare with a good half- 
hour to spare, over and above that which had been advised. 
But even thus she was none too early, and the whole place 
was thronged with passengers who had apparently been 
waiting there all night. It seemed, indeed, as though she 
would never be able to tear her way through the mass of 
humanity, find her allotted place, evict, even with the aid of 
the stationmaster — who was respectful because of plain 
Mrs. Jervis, whom he knew, and not in the least because of 
Miss D’Eath of Dene Royal, whom he did not know — the 
man who had already established himself in her corner 
seat with a damsel dark ” upon his knee. 

But it was not only the crowd which was alarming; it 
was the way in which some few savaged themselves to the 
front, their abandonment of all courtesy and self-restraint; 
then again the desperate and almost terrifying patience of 
others — mostly women these, hung round by bundles, with 
crying children in their arms, clinging to their skirts — their 
air of having lost all count of time, all hope. 

At the very last moment Susie leant from the window 
and drew a young woman with two tiny children into her 
already overcrowded compartment, thinking with the cour- 
age, the optimism of youth, “ I can quite well stand.” 

She never forgot that journey — years later the very smell 
of a train would bring it all back to her — the cramped 

223 


224 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


position, the endless stoppages — always where there was no 
station, no possible chance of getting anything to drink — 
the dreadful heat generated by the close pressure of human 
bodies; the flies, the smell of food which the people drew 
from their bundles; the look of an old man sleeping with 
his mouth and eyes open, his head fallen all sideways as 
though he were dead ; the fashion in which one white-faced, 
youngish woman sat bent forward over her knees and 
moaned almost without ceasing; the way another wept — 
wept without a pause, the tears streaming unchecked down 
her face, falling like rain upon her hands, her lap ; the sort 
of mind which — even in the midst of all that misery — drove 
a dissolute-looking man to leer at her, Susie, pinch her arm. 

After nearly three hours the train did at last draw up 
at a station ; the woman to whom Susie had given her seat 
got out, and she sank into it. The platform was at the 
opposite side of the carriage, and though she was parched 
with thirst she did not dare get out in search of something 
to drink, for the people were like waves against the win- 
dows — one man actually ran along the outer side of the 
train, and tried to get in at the side where Susie was sit- 
ting. She would have helped him, but the others would not 
have him, even the weeping woman checked her tears to call 
out upon him. They were already packed to suffocation; 
there was not floor room for as much as another pair of 
feet; apart from this their own fight for life, escape from 
heaven only knows what horrors — for more than one came 
from the invaded regions — ^had rendered them merciless; 
these people trying now to crush them to death were at the 
right side of Paris ; why should they expect to have things 
made easy for them ? 

At Rouen — which they only reached late that afternoon, 
for the constant stoppages, the shuntings on the sidings 
where, again and again, they lay as though forgotten, had 
dragged the journey out to an apparently interminable 
length — the greater number of the occupants of Susie’s car- 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


225 


riage got out. But still she did not dare to move; for a 
fresh mass of people surged along the platform, and a 
dreadful picture of what might happen were she not able 
to rejoin the train, forced to stay in Rouen with next to no 
money kept her chained to her seat. 

Suddenly amid the excited crowd, which seemed to be 
tearing the dismounting passengers to pieces in its fury 
of impatience, Susie caught sight of what — in that sea of 
strangers — seemed like a familiar face, a red head, the 
shoulders of a shabby suit of civilian tweeds; and regard- 
less of the fact that the man was in reality a mere stranger, 
forgetting all her scorn for that same civilian suit — brand 
of ignominy — she leant from the window, waved, shouted 
to her former fellow-traveler. 

A broad grin dawned slowly over the young man’s face 
as he made his way towards her, climbed into the already 
bursting carriage, and settled himself with his back against 
the door. 

“ Hallo ! this is jolly — seeing you again ! You look pretty 
fagged; wait until we shake down a bit. I’ve got some 
fruit and a bottle of claret in my knapsack and we’ll cele- 
brate,” he said ; then added cheerfully to his nearest neigh- 
bor — a stout, elderly gentleman in a black alpaca suit. “ If 
you could possibly make it convenient to keep off my toes 
and that lady’s lap, it might add to the harmony of nations 
— eh, what?” 

Never, never in all her life had Susie been so glad 
to see anybody; even more glad when on reaching Dieppe 
in the soft pink and gray mist of late evening she found 
that the boat was not leaving until next morning. Now, 
supposing that her money did not run to paying the bill 
at the Hotel du Chariot d’Or the only place where she could 
succeed in obtaining even the tiniest room, there was at 
least one person who would vouch for her respectability, 
see to it that she was not left to languish in a French 
prison — or even worse, held up to ridicule, ignominy. 


CHAPTER XXV 


Gone were the racing waves, the blue sky, the buoyant, 
blood-stirring winds of that outward voyage. 

A thick mist hung around the steamer, which moved 
slowly and tentatively, like some ponderous live creature 
feeling her way fearfully, with strange cries, heavy, anxious 
breaths. 

Every now and then some dim form slid out of the mist 
and she paused, panting anxiously, while a wraith-like form 
on the bridge bellowed its answer, its assent to instructions. 

The passengers, mooning restlessly about the deck or 
leaning over the taffrail, spoke almost in whispers. It 
seemed as though the fog, the sense of danger, oppressed, 
overawed them. 

Moisture dripped from the boats overhead, from every 
scrap of rigging — greasy moisture blackened with smoke 
from the funnels. 

To Susie D’Eath it seemed as though they were in a 
world apart from anything that had ever gone before : that 
the journey could never come to an end, that they would 
go on like this for ever. 

Not that she wanted it to come to an end, and her own 
depression, sense of finality frightened her, she had never 
felt like that before. She had a dreadful sense of being 
beaten. The outraged amazement, the furious incredulity 
of the day before had given place to a new and appalling 
sense of helplessness. For the first time in her life she was 
up against that impregnable wall which sets the bounds to 
our own powers, marks our own limitations and the con- 
centrated, indififerent force of conditions against which we 
are powerless to contend. She had, indeed, encountered 

226 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


227 


people who were far stronger than herself, stronger and 
most terrifying because of this very indifference, an inter- 
locking, far-reaching ring of systems which counted out 
her very existence — the existence of all D’Eaths of Dene 
Royal, of Laishens, of Little Laishens, of Suttons. 

When some one during those awful hours had said — 
“ You ought to have had more sense than to start off on 
such a fool’s errand,” and she murmured she was sorry,” 
her critic had remained unmoved. This alone showed what 
the world could be like at its worst! 

“ What good does it do being sorry ? ” This was what 
the young clerk had said, and the words came like a blow. 

It was almost incredible that any one could be so hard. 
She did not remember ever having expressed contrition for 
anything before; that had been one of Mary’s complaints 
about her — If you would only say that you’re sorry when 
you have done wrong.” 

Now she had made this amend, and it had been brushed 
aside with scorn. She was more amazed than outraged ; 
but even this was not such a facer as it was to find that 
her word was not taken without some corroborative evi- 
dence. 

Bound to be careful, you know ; all sorts of queer, 
shady characters — women especially — about nowadays.” 
That was said as though she, Susie D’Eath, might actually 
prove to be one of them — “ a queer, shady character.” 

It is rather an awful moment for youth when it first 
realizes a world to which it means nothing whatever; finds 
itself obliged to stand completely upon its own merits, 
among people who do not care in the very least what it is, 
what it has done; disregards its family, its rank, its very 
youth, judges it not only from the standpoint of what it 
can do — but whether it can do exactly the right thing at 
the right moment; whether it is or is not of use. 

This epoch represents one of the landmarks of life. Yet 


228 


WHILE THERE^S LIFE 


another comes when we realize that there are no irresistible 
temptations left to us. And this latter experience marks the 
beginning of old age as surely as the former marks the dawn 
of maturity. 

Susie D^th had gone out to France a child; she re- 
turned a woman. 

Mark Fulton, upon the hard bench at her side — for no 
deck-chairs were allowed, ‘‘ in case,” they said — puffing 
steadily at his pipe, glancing at her sideways, felt that the 
very curve of her cheek was finer, less rounded. 

On her outward journey she had talked of herself ; now 
the position was reversed. Her companion was anxious 
about her; he wanted to know something of her future 
plans, details concerning that trip to Paris, of which she 
had told him nothing, save that she had gone out to do 
something very special, had failed. He also had failed in 
what he set out to do. But with him it was not the first 
time; he was older, and he was the sort of man who, in 
his light-hearted way, was accustomed to take risks. Later 
on, when Susie learnt to know some of his friends, heard 
him spoken of, she realized that there were few men who 
had taken greater risks, done more daring things in a less 
flamboyant fashion, valued life less. 

He was naturally modest, very reluctant to talk about 
himself, inclined to be inarticulate. But he forced himself 
to tell the girl something of his own life with the idea of 
winning her further confidences. 

He began with his other failures. As he told them they 
sounded almost fuuny, just the sort of silly things which 
might happen to any one. But later, in thinking them over, 
they took shape in Susie^s mind, and well might have done 
in any mind, however mature, as the plain record of some- 
thing amazing, pathetic, altogether admirable — more admi- 
rable than any success. 

At first she scarcely listened. She felt that Mark Fulton 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


229 


was a friend, and there was comfort in his friendship, his 
very nearness ; but she was immersed in her own troubles. 
Her father was as far away as ever; she could not keep 
her thoughts upon him because he was so far away, and 
she herself so near. Her anxieties regarding money, her 
determination not to go back to Dene Royal or to school, 
own herself beaten, submit to being questioned, her own 
individuality, all these were so insistent that they pushed 
themselves in between herself and the very reason of her 
journey, her actual failure. 

“ The Germans could not be worse than George — George 
and Mary together. Perhaps, after all, he’s better off than 
I am,” she thought bitterly. For surely nothing, nothing — 
no amount of privation, persecution even — could be as hard 
to bear as the ignominy of this “ creeping back.” 

Gradually, however, what Mark Fulton was saying came 
home to her; not so much because of what he had to tell 
her, at least not at first, as on account of the fact that 
he seemed amused, in a way stimulated, by his own failures. 
Susie was as imitative as all young things are, and it gave 
her a new idea for the way of taking life. A faint hope 
rose in her heart that, after all, this journey to Paris might 
come to seem like a real adventure, “ a lark,” if only she 
could find courage to pick herself up, laugh at her fall, go 
on again. 

Yes, that was it — go on, keep on. Thus in a fashion 
Fulton’s efforts defeated themselves, at least for the mo- 
ment, stiffened the girl’s back to bear her own burdens. 

“ Of course, they turned me down,” she heard him say- 
ing. “ I had a sort of hope I’d wriggle through ; I believe 
the first doctor might have passed me, but the second chap 
spotted me, was down on me like a ton of bricks.” 

“ How do you mean ? ” 

“ Well, you know, I had a nasty smash up nearly two 
years ago, and the sight of one eye’s not so good as it might 


230 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


be. The English authorities! By gad! one could only 
admire them; one gets into the way of thinking one’s own 
people are idiots, but they’re not, not by a long chalk. I 
thought I had all the tests — that a, b, c, x, y, z — rat, cat, 
dog business — ^learnt off by heart, and then they changed 
the whole blessed thing. After that I made sure that I 
would get through the French tests; some fellow I know 
wrote out the whole rigmarole for me. But they had 
changed that, too, the very day before I got my innings — 
just like my luck! An’ now I suppose I’m done for so 
far as flying’s concerned.” 

‘‘ You wanted — ^you wanted to get into the Flying 
Corps?” 

“Wanted! That’s a mild word.” 

“And you tried?” 

“Well, doesn’t any fool try for what he wants? I 
sort of felt, in my bones, after the first check that I was 
foredoomed to failure, but I went on trying; partly out of 

devilment, and Oh, well, you know, one has to go 

on. Besides, however many nasty jars one comes up against 
one still goes on, believes in one’s own superiority to the 
force of circumstances.” 

“And all the time you had tried! You-^^ — ” For the 
first time during that crossing Susie had turned, was staring 
straight at her companion, while a slow wave of crirnson 
swept over her face. When she jerked her head aside — 
gazing into the blank wall of mist — she still saw the quiz- 
zical, freckled face with the light gray eyes, the close- 
cropped head of dark red hair, so crisp and stubborn in 
its determination to curl that it was little wonder any 
parting was difficult. What a bounder, what an utterly 
presumptuous bounder she had been ! “You ought to have 
told me — why didn’t you tell me?” 

“ I think I wanted to see if you’d really go and do it.” 

“Do what?” 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


231 

Pick a white feather out of some one’s pillow, present 
it to me. It’s been done so often ; it’s quite the thing, you 
know,” he grinned. 

One must be very meek to endure the truth. Susie was 
repentant, but she was by no means meek. “After all, it 
was your own fault. You ought to say something, do 
something, wear something.” 

“ Do, say, wear what ? A placard with ‘ Shop soiled,’ 
or, ‘ Returned empty, with care,’ slung round my 
neck ? ” 

Susie tossed back her head angrily. “Well ” she 

began, then caught his eye and laughed. 

“ Fairly had,” she acknowledged, with one of her sudden 
disarming confessions; then added eagerly: “And now, 
what are you going to do?” She hung upon his answer. 
What did other people do when they had been beaten in 
one direction? What would a person like this — so sure of 
himself — do? 

“ Oh, start off on some other lay, I suppose ; try if 
they’ll take me on as a dispatch rider. I’ve got an old 
mouse-trap of a motor-bike of my own, that’s something 
to start with. But it seems a pity ; for, after all, I do know 
something, not much, but something of flying.” 

“You have flown, really? How perfectly thrilling!” 
For a moment Susie was clean out of herself, the face she 
turned towards him alight with excitement. 

“ Who hasn’t, in these days ? ” 

“Well, I haven’t, for one; I ” Susie drew herself 

up sharply ; of course he would say, “ Oh, well, a girl’s 
different.” But he merely remarked, puffing steadily at 
his pipe, gazing out into the mist — with a rapt look such 
as one might see upon the face of a woman dreaming of 
her lover — There’s nothing in the world like it. Who 
was it said, * Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of 
Cathay,’ or something of that sort? Well, better fifty hours 


232 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


in the air than a lifetime anywhere else, so far as I’m con- 
cerned. And now ” 

But if you’re so fond of it as all that it will be awful 
— a motor-bike after an aeroplane ! ” 

He turned and looked at her gravely, knocking the ashes 
out of his pipe against the side of his chair. She had 
regarded him almost as a boy ; but in his expression, in 
his next words, there was a maturity which hurt her almost 
as much as those doubts cast upon her veracity, the repudi- 
ation of her apologies ; for it was all a part of finding out 
that life was not what she had always thought it to 

Well, that’s what it is, through everything I suppose, 
trying to bamboozle oneself into believing that the second 
best is what one really wants; to soar, jumping ditches 
on a rackety motor-bike ! ” 

“ Well, but — if it’s only one eye, and you can still see 
a little, and there’s the other?” 

“Well, between you and I and the wall, my head was 
pretty well bashed about. I’ve only just given up curling 
my hyacinthine locks over a dinky little silver plate. I 
suppose they’re afraid of the altitude, or something knock- 
ing me over, let alone the Boche getting in on the game side 
— and an aeroplane costs the Government a lot, you know. 
A chap on his own motor-bike, now. Well, he may be of 
real use, and after all he’s his own affair.” 

“ How did you learn to fly ? How did you get a chance 
of learning?” How did people do things? How could 
she do things? That was the heart of Susie’s question. 

“Well, I was always mad about it. I went up for the 
first time while I was still at school, had flown alone before 
I was eighteen. I wasn’t supposed to be doing it, was 
learning engineering in the railway works at Ashford. But 
I couldn’t leave it alone, every holiday, every penny I got 
I spent at Hendon — chaps were frightfully good to me. 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


233 


got to know me. They’re a sporting lot, ready to give 
any man his chance.” 

Then you had a fall ? ” 

“ Then — like that chap Phaeton, you know — I began to 
get too big for my boots and started to build a machine 
of my own. I don’t know why, but I can’t get it out of 
my head to-day. I suppose the mist reminds me, and when 
I see any one hipped as you’re hipped I seem to be remem- 
bering back to how I felt when I found out what had 
happened. We started the thing, I and another chap from 
the works, in a disused barn upon the Romney Marshes, 
and it seemed to be pretty well always like this, walled 
round with mist. We had a little runabout car, and we 
used to go straight away from our works at Ashford and 
get down there at half-past six each evening. We began 
it in the early spring, and, by Jove, the cold was beyond 
all words, cold and mist, and chill, salt-laden winds. We 
fitted up an electric installation, and used to go on working 
until midnight or later; then scorch back to our digs at 
Ashford, tumble into bed and sleep like death. I can tell 
you we needed some calling to get us to the works by 
My mother was alive then, and I used to go up to her in 
town for week-ends. I remember I grudged it awfully, all 
that time I might have put into our work, but I’m jolly 
glad now — she died this winter, just before Christmas. I 
used to sleep — ^ye gods, how I used to sleep ! She never 
could make out what in the world was wrong with me — ^but 
I suppose those week-ends were what saved me, kept me 
going. Anyhow, we finished the blamed thing latish last 
year. The mists had started again then. Do you know 
those Romney Marshes? It’s a queer part of the world, 
older, in some odd way, than the rest of England, or more 
untouched. Yes, that’s it, older, as though some sinister 
pagan forces had got caught there, between civilization and 
the sea. There’s something jealous and grudging about 


234 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


the place; when there’s no mist the clouds are immense; 
you never saw such stretches of sky and jagged clouds. 
The wind, too ; in a way it's personally aggressive, searches 
out every chink in your armor. Things were always hap- 
pening; I don’t know why, but they were — inexplicable 
things. It was as though the whole place, pickled in the 
salt of centuries, resented the very fact of us being there; 
beyond all, resented the thought of us messing about in an 
element where we had no manner of right to be. One 
couldn’t drop a hammer without it falling on one’s toe. 
I cut an artery in my wrist the very day we had practically 
got our job finished; you never saw anything like the way 
the blood spurted up into the air! That ought to have 
appeased them — an oblation to the gods ! But it didn’t. All 
the parts, the engine itself was as good as we could get it — 
a J.A.P., and it went! You know that purr when an 
engine is really loving itself ; we had tried it the day before 
I went up, and it was like music, better than any music, 
tickling one’s heart-strings. Everything else was as perfect 
as we could make it. Of course there were faults, defects ; 

I realize that we’d do better now. But still ” He paused, 

with a little jerk of his head, staring out in front of him. 

** You — ^you went up in her? ” 

Fulton nodded, his jaw was set. '' Went up — oh, yes, 
went up!” he said; then added grimly: '‘Went up, and 
came down again.” 

“ I say ” — Susie almost whispered the words, it seemed 
as though there was a lump stuck in her throat — "I” — 
she put out one hand and touched the back of his — “ I say, 
I am sorry — what rotten, what perfectly rotten luck ! ” 

"Thanks — awfully.” Fulton’s voice was hoarse; then 
he pulled himself together with a shrug of his shoulders, 
turned and faced her, grinning ; though both pairs of young 
eyes — the odd light gray with the short sandy lashes, the 
deep blue with the wide black pupils — were suspiciously 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


235 

moist and shining. “Well, it was a jar— in more ways 
then one. A jar? Good lord! a demijohn! But I suppose 
they’d say I was lucky to escape with my life. Now, look 
here, don’t you think I’ve told you pretty well enough about 
myself? What about you — your quest?” 

“ I ? ” said Susie. “ Oh, well, I suppose I’ve come a — 
well, a sort of a bit of a cropper too. Not like yours; 
I’ve never got high enough for that, anyway; more like 
Humpty Dumpty. But still, when one thinks, when one is 

perfectly sure that one can do a thing, it’s — it’s ” 

“ Like putting your foot into the wrong boot.” 

“ And tight, horribly tight — some one else’s boot. I 
suppose that’s it — the worst part, anyhow. When we set 
out to do a thing it’s our own thing, done in our own 
way, that we want. When we come back failures, ten 
to one there’s nothing left but somebody else’s ‘ thing,’ done 
in somebody else’s way; it seems as though one was ever- 
lastingly being squeezed into other people’s boots in that 
fashion. I dare say it seems all right to them. I dare 
say they feel of just as much importance to themselves — 
as much ‘ I ’ to themselves as I am ‘ I ’ to myself. But 

still Oh, well, there’s nothing left. That’s what it 

comes to.” She leant forward, her hands clasped between 
her knees, desperate, despairing, perfectly certain that never, 
never again could life be even remotely worth living. 

“ I might as well be dead. I never succeed in anything 
I want to do.” Gone, clean swept away, was every memory 
of former triumphs : the strike she had headed against suet 
puddings, the scholarship for French — after all, where was 
the use of learning French when French people were such 
asses as not to understand what you said “ Everything’s 
hopeless. Nothing — nothing’s any use, nobody cares! I 
only wish the rotten old steamer would strike a mine ! ” 
“Thanks,” said Fulton; “burning our Rome to cook 
your chop ! ” 


CHAPTER XXVI 


Both Treherne and D'Eath speculated a good deal over 
what they called “ the Phillips affair.” Plan as they might 
they could see no way out of the position in which Alf — 
after all so much more innocent than ’Rene, who always 
seemed most innocent — had landed himself between the 
two women: come to any definite conclusion as to what 
would happen upon his return. Still, whenever they were 
tired or bored with other things they found themselves 
reverting to the same problem, endeavoring to solve it; 
fascinated by it as work-wearied men may be by a double 
acrostic; arranging and re-arranging the future of all con- 
cerned. 

But Fate takes pleasure in checkmating all such en- 
deavors. The jade has no reverence, would play an April 
fool’s trick with a mother at her child’s grave, delights 
in anything like an anticlimax. Thus the old playwrights 
showed their knowledge when they mingled buffoonery with 
tragedy ; if one really wishes to make sure that the ill-bred 
cocotte will not jump out and cry “ boo ! ” in the midst 
of the deepest emotions, the gravest scenes, she must be 
given some definite part. 

Alf’s home life after the war” was discussed from 
every possible standpoint; both women were unselfishly 
bent on giving him up to each other, loving Alf and yet 
in an odd way counting him out, so far as his own personal 
choice was concerned. Then, after all — and it seemed as 
though the man himself might have sniggered over the 
solution — it appeared that Alf was not to come home at 
all, and a telegram was sent apprising his wife of the 
fact 

236 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


• 237 

“ Killed in action.” That was what it said. 

There was very little correspondence addressed to 
Fourteen Chatham Row ; nothing, in fact, beyond Alf ’s own 
letters, which were shared by both Mrs. Phillipses, opened 
by either. 

As the telegram arrived during the afternoon it was 
“ the Kipper ” who received it and brought it round to 
D’Eath. 

Going downstairs, in answer to O’Hagan’s summons, 
D’Eath found her hovering upon the threshold of the hall, 
looking as though she had been blown there by that sort 
of wind which drives dust and straws into London 
doorways; drab, meager, red-eyed, one of those strange, 
draggle-plumed birds one sees in the East End, who flutter 
apologetically through life, just as they flutter their broken- 
winged way through the streets ; always upon the inner side 
of the pavement, close against the wall, hesitating long, 
with their shawls drawn tightly around them, at each cross- 
ing; heralded by no brisk tap of heels; moving inaudibly, 
save in the most deserted highways when a faint dragging 
shuffle catches the ear. It seemed amazing to think of any 
such women ‘‘ living in sin,” as the moralists would call it, 
knowing anything of temptation, passion — an object of 
desire, bearing a child. 

’Rene would have brought her in at the door, caught 
her up, sweeping her along by sheer force of her own 
buoyant, robust life. But alone she could get no farther 
than the doorpost, clung to it with one hand, holding out 
the telegram in the other. 

“ Alf ’s dead ! ” She spoke with a dragging, resentful 
drawl which might have been taken for indifference. “ First 
the kid — now ’im! I was wonderin’ if yer’d go an’ tell 
’Rene. She oughter know. She can’t go on sellin’ flowers 
wiv ’er ’usband dead an’ all. ’E was ’er man — ’e belonged 
ter ’er. But there yer are — ’e’s dead ! ” 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


238 

There was a long pause. “ I’m very, very sorry to hear 
it,” said D’Eath; but she took no notice of his words. 

I daren’t not go. She might be cornin’ ’ome early an^ 
me miss ’er. Besides, I don’t not rightly know my way 

about them parts. If yer think as ’ow yer could ” 

She spoke tentatively, glancing at him sideways, with droop- 
ing head, dragging her shawl tighter around her thin 
shoulders; her face was long and dully opaque, her eyes 
unbrightened by tears, bdt the corners of her loose mouth 
twitched. “ ’E was ’er man by rights, dontcher see ; set 
on ’im, as I might be.” 

“Of course I will go. Shall I take this?” The woman 
nodded, and D’Eath placed the telegram in his pocket- 
book. “ Now, won’t you see Miss Villiers ; let her give 
you a cup of tea ? ” 

“ Thank yer kindly, but I reckon I’d better be gettin’ 
back. I don’t rightly feel as ’ow I wants ter see nobody. 
It’s a sorter knock-down; there ain’t no mistake about 

that. Sorter ways the end ” She hesitated, rubbing 

one finger up and down the edge of the door, gazing at 
it curiously. “ I suppose as ’ow it’s certain sure ? I sup- 
pose as ’ow there can’t not be no mistake? — but then it 
ain’t not likely, what with the expense of that there tele- 
gram an’ all — as it were another bloke an’ not Alf?” 
Again she paused, her doleful mouth drawn tight. 

“ I’m afraid not, but I can make inquiries if you like, 
see whether I can get any particulars ” 

“ No, I wouldn’t like ter trouble yer ter do that. I 
reckon what that there telegram says is true; an’ if ’e’s 
dead ’e’s dead, an’ there ain’t no more ter be said. Eh, 
well, I suppose I’d better be movin’ on; there ain’t nuffin’ 
ter be done, won’t never be, not no more. Eh, dear, but 
this ’ere war’s a shockin’ thing, no funeral, no nuffin’. I ” — 
her eyes became suffused with red, she dragged her shawl 
across her mouth — “ I didn’t not ’ave ’im long, an’ ’e 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


239 


weren’t never not rightly mine — not by law an’ not by 
feelin’ neither, along o’ ’im thinkin’ so constant o’ ’Rene. 
But there ain’t no woman in the world as could ’a’ studied 

’im, more than I did, though ” Once more her words 

tailed oif, as though she had used them ail up; while 
she turned her eyes from the edge of the door and fixed 
them upon D’Eath with the puzzled, inarticulate misery 
of a wounded animal. 

After all,” he said — and wondered directly the words 
were out of his mouth what his brother Horace, what his 
own son, would have thought of them — there was the 
child. Don’t you think that made him yours, just as much 
as ’Rene’s?” 

For a moment a wintry gleam of pleasure crossed her 
face. Then she let the shawl fall from her mouth, twisted 
into a smile which was almost derisive. “ That ain’t no 
good! Yer means well, and thank yer, but ’Rene’s kid 
was first, an’ it’s the first as counts. A man’s scared 
over ’is first in a way ’e ain’t over the others, an’ that 
tells. But there, yer’ll let ’er know, poor dear. I ain’t 
got nuffin’ against ’Rene. ’Rene’s stood by me — there 
ain’t nufhn’ as I’d grudge to ’Rene. No, not even the 
weeds — crepe weeds nor nuffin’. For it’s like this, yer 
see: I’d ’a’ lost ’im sooner nor I did if ’Rene ’adn’t not 
stood by me.” 

Moving in a dream, full of thoughts of the two women, 
of the man who was gone, D’Eath mounted the wrong bus, 
found himself obliged to get off it at Charing Cross. 

For a while he stood on the pavement hesitating. It 
seemed scarcely worth while to catch another; he could 
easily walk up through Trafalgar Square and so on to Pic- 
cadilly Circus. 

But it was a hot day, moist and thunder-laden. His 
heart did not trouble him nearly so much as it had 
done, for Treherne’s diagnosis had been correct; still, any 


240 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


worry or shock brought back the old feeling of intense 
fatigue, particularly when the weather was heavy and 
overcast. 

After all, what was the use of dragging up that hill? 
Besides, time was precious, and he did not want to miss 
’Rene. 

He turned and looked along the Strand to see what 
buses were in sight. He had been too engrossed in his 
thoughts to feel the slightest fear of meeting any one he 
knew; as a matter of fact, his old life, all that belonged 
to it, seemed to have receded into the far distance. So 
m,uch had happened since he left Dene Royal, was still 
happening, or in front of him. 

Thus the first sight of a girlish figure in a blue serge 
coat and skirt, coming out of the station gates, suit-case 
in hand, found him little more than vaguely puzzled, still 
in a dream, conscious only that it reminded him of, was 
like, curiously like, some one he knew — Susie. Was it 
Susie ? 

In common with us all he had the defects of his quali- 
ties. Sensitive, gentle, kind, his interests and affections 
flowed in upon him afresh each day. After all, how little 
there had ever been to rivet his love, for that is the out- 
come of one’s own necessity, one’s closeness to the person 
loved ; and how little had he seen of his youngest daughter ; 
how little had she, or any one of them, ever appeared to 
need him? 

There was a perceptible interval before he even thought 
A girl like Susie — a girl who might be Susie ; only ” — 
then the girl turned her head, stood with her back to him. 
Her hair was done up — untidily; she looked tired, bewil- 
dered, drooped a little. Susie was so trim in her schoolgirl 
way, so confident, almost rakish in her every movement, 
wore her hair in a plait with a big bow. This girl, now — 
his glance dropped, one brown stocking sagged loosely 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


241 


round the ankle. Of course, it couldn’t be Susie. Susie 
would never have her stocking like that. Still — still — 
he was as bewildered as a man awakening from a 
dream. 

The girl moved to the edge of the pavement and turned 
her head, first one way and then the other; not as though 
she were looking for anything in particular, rather as 
though she were trying to make up her mind. Anyhow, a 
girl like that had no business alone, and so evidently at a 
loss, tired to indifference ; it was not safe. If his daughter 
Susie — he moved a step nearer. For the first time a slow 
dejected turn of the girl’s head — if he had but known it 
she was trying to remember the best way to Bloomsbury, 
where she had been taken to the British Museum, told 
of boarding-houses almost adjoining it, every bit as antique 
— brought into full sight the pure oval of the face, the 
blue eyes, heavy with fatigue, and he realized that it was 
Susie. Actually Susie herself ! Oddly changed — with his 
quick perception for subtleties he realized this — but still 
Susie. 

His first thought was of flight, but wonder led his feet. 
Even after the first thought of her actual identity had 
come to him he still advanced, staring, like a half-fascinated 
child. By the time that he was sure of her there was 
scarcely a yard between them, and it was too late to 
retreat; for the next turn of her head brought them face 
to face. 

Even then D’Eath had an idea that he might, after all, 
be mistaken, for her face bleached so that she seemed a 
different creature from the warm-colored girl he had known 
— after all, so little. 

They drew another step nearer to one another. If 
D’Eath himself was bewildered, fascinated, she was even 
more so, scared into the bargain, her eyes wide. Both 
hands were full, with suit-case, umbrella, hand-bag, or she 


242 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


would certainly have put out one to touch him, see if he 
were real. Susie was like that; she would have poked 
at a ghost, however frightened she might be, just to 
make sure. 

“ Father ! ” she came closer, their faces were almost 
touching. She looked so white, shaken, almost awestruck, 
that he was afraid what might happen. In Wapping it 
would have been hysterics, a scene; what did girls like 
this do in moments of emotion — faint? 

His fear gave him coolness, a sudden inspiration. 

“ Hallo ! ‘ Pine-processional ? ’ ” he said ; and Susie 

broke into a weak giggle, dropped her suit-case at her 
feet and caught his arm. 

“Goodness gracious! It is you, really you? If this 
doesn’t beat creation! And only to think — if I had got 
to Nauheim ” 

“ What— you?” 

“ I went — I started, I mean — I meant to go to find you ! 

And all this time you — you ” She was very tired, 

desperately in want of her tea, and her giggles overcame 

her. “ And all the time — you — you Oh, you sort of 

Peter Pan, you ! ” 

D’Eath hailed a taxi and put her into it, bade the man 
drive round Trafalgar Square until he was told to stop; 
then, seating himself at her side, took her hand. 

“ Look here, Susie, there’s an awful lot to tell you, 
but it will have to wait. Anyhow, I’m not at 
Nauheim.” 

“ That’s a sheer waste of words.” The girl was recover- 
ing herself. “Just fancy, if I had gone there — but how 
in the world did you get back ? ” 

“ I didn’t go at all.” 

“ Didn’t go ? But the letters ” 

D’Eath glanced sideways at his daughter with an air 
of desperate depression, shame; only to think if it had 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


243 

been Mary ! ** Well, nothing matters now. It’s all over 

now, I suppose. I ” 

‘‘ I like that ; you think I’ll tell. I ! ” Her indigna- 

tion was broken by a titter. ‘‘ After all, you’re not the 
only one to have run away.” 

- What— you?” 

She nodded, flushed with excitement. “ Me — me too. 
Oh, what sucks to those others ! — the true, the only Pro- 
cessionals ! The ring’s broken ” 

“ But, my dear, with you, a young girl ” 

Susie turned, lifted a small thumb in a black glove that 
had once been white. “ See that ? ” She laughed delight- 
edly. “ See that ? I’ve got you under it ; no good trying 
to play the heavy father with me. And now — my word, 
what wouldn’t I give for some tea ! ” 

“ You’ll have to wait.” He told her something of his 
mission to ’Rene and her face sobered. He had been right 
in that first impression of her; she had changed, was 
capable of feeling things in a new way. 

“ If she cared for him — it must be too awful to care for 
somebody like that, and then lose them.” She spoke almost 
as though she knew what it might mean. And then: 
“ When you get out to fetch her I’ll make the man shut 
the taxi.” 

“ But why, a hot day like this ? ” 

She’ll like to cry in peace, poor dear ; if she wants 
to cry, if she can cry.” 


CHAPTER XXVII 


"Of course she must go home; we’ll have to own up, 
both of us,” remarked D’Eath, conscious that he was bol- 
stering up his own strength of mind by what he took it 
for granted that Treherne would say. 

But Treherne said nothing. As usual after supper he 
was deep in his chair by the open window, smoking, hug- 
ging an all too brief peace. Mrs. Wing Sen had expressed 
her firm intention of sending round for him again. She 
had already sent three times, and he had obeyed the 
summons ; but nothing had happened, though she was 
in a dangerous condition, knew it and took a pride in 
it. " There’s some as ’ave a babby as easy as winkin’, 
but that’s not me,” she would boast ; " it ’ud turn yer 
’air white if I was ter start out ter tell yer the awful 
way as I’ve suffered, the things as I’ve been through with 
my four — cross births an’ all. Them there lidies as ’ave 
their kids wiv no more trouble, less than a day’s washing 
— just for all the world like rabbits, though I says it 
as shouldn’t — they don’t know what a sensitive female is 
put to.” 

O’Hagan was scornful. " Let ’er squeal ! ” that’s what 
he would say when an anxious-faced Sen child came run- 
ning for the doctor, with an awful tale of how his mother 
was taking on. " Shriekin’ out sumfing awful, enuf ter 
make yer blood run cold.” 

"Any woman as marries a Chink — marries ’im, mind 
yer — oughter suffer, an’ I don’t niind if she is yer mother; 
there’s no gettin’ over ’o’s yer daddy, she’s got *er married 
lines wrote down plain an’ darned ugly in the faces o’ 
all you kids, no mistake about that! For what woman as 

244 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


245 

was a woman ’ud ’ave more nor one kid by a Chink if 
she weren’t not tied to ’im — arsk me another ? ” 

Susie was sitting on the window-sill craning out, watch- 
ing the arrogant ways of a tug with a four-masted sailing- 
ship which caught the wind all sideways, moved sulkily; 
her canvas tight round her yards — like a thin woman with 
her arms rolled in her apron; slithering along like — well, 
just like “ the Kipper,” of whom she had caught a glimpse 
that evening when they took ’Rene home in their taxi — 
’Rene weeping in an utter abandonment of grief, with her 
head upon Susie’s slim shoulder. 

Susie was a difficulty; D’Eath realized this with a half- 
whimsical sense of the fatality which always hangs round 
anything one likes; but if she were not a difficulty what 
a companion she might have been! It was amazing how 
she had found the right words for ’Rene ; her calm 
acceptance of the case, as, on their way to the pier- 
head house, D’Eath had unfolded it to her — very shyly, 
wondering how much young girls might be supposed to 
know. 

Right an’ wrong’s all a queer sort of mix up,” said 
Susie. Of course, it was frightfully wrong of ’Rene to 
run away from Alf, to start off with — I suppose her real 
name’s Irene, the same as your Irene.” She broke off, 
coolly disassociating herself from the family. “ But if 
she had not done it, ten to one' the other woman would 
never have had any sort of a chance, so there you 
are. 

** It’s out of the question to keep a young girl here,” 
went on D’Eath, as Treherne, puffing steadily at his pipe, 
volunteered no remark. '' Then there’s Mary to be thought 
of. Oh, it would never do ! ” 

“ The priest’s sheets smell of onions ; I noticed it when 
I made up the bed,” remarked Susie, with apparent care- 
lessness; for after one long, steady glance at her O’Hagan 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


246 

had sighed deeply, then departed, without a word, in search 
of borrowed bed linen. 

“ The ship’s out of sight ! Odd how the night comes 
down here, like a hand closing, quite gently, over every- 
thing — a gray frill dropping over its wrist.” For a moment 
she paused, pleased by her own fancy, then began again: 

I asked O’Hagan if I couldn’t go down the river on one 
of those barges — what a card he is ! ' Yer can’t that ! ’ 

he said; then when I asked why, the only reason he could 
give was that we might be out all night. Such non- 
sense! It doesn’t seem much just going down the river 
to Gravesend or Tilbury after going to France all alone, 

does it? And I don’t see why I Oh, look here, 

O’Hagan!” 

O’Hagan had entered the room on silent padding feet, 
was lighting the lamp. He had never quite got over his 
rejection, but all the same he had learned to wear it with 
an air, like a feather in his cap. “ It’s a blamed wonder 
as I’m alive at all, that’s what they all tell me,” he would 
declare with pride. 

“ Even if we were out on the barge all night, what would 
it matter? I could take food, a rug; I’m used to looking 
after myself.” 

“ Yer can’t go a-cause there ain’t not no sort o’ accom- 
modation, I’ve told yer that already.” O’Hagan turned 
and looked at the girl severely, as one might look at any 
over-insistent child. 

I don’t see ” 

‘‘ No, yer don’t see ; ’cause why, yer don’t know enuf 
ter see. Yer ain’t not born yet, not in a manner o’ 
speakin’.” 

‘‘ I like that. I ” 

“ ’Aven’t I told yer yer can’t go ; there ain’t no sorter 
accommodation? Why can’t yer take the word o’ one 
as knows better nor you do? There ain’t no room for 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


247 


females aboard them wherries. Look ’ere, yer’d best tell 
’er, or we won’t not ’ave no peace; I know them sorts.” 
O’Hagan gave a jerk of his great chin in D’Eath’s direc- 
tion, indicating Susie with his thumb. “ It ain’t my place 
ter enlighten ’er, but it’s like this ; she can’t not go — ’cause 
why, there ain’t no sorter room, an’ she’d ’ave ter sleep 
wiv the captin. That’s as sure as eggs is eggs, and if she 
don’t ’ave it plain out she won’t take it, not from you nor 
from me, nor from no one else, neither. I know ’er sort, 
by Gawd I do ! ” 

There,” said D’Eath pettishly as the ex-prize-fighter 
slid from the room, that will show you, Treherne. It’s 
no place for a young girl. What would Mary say, what 
would they all think? No, no, we’ll have to go home, own 
up, no matter what you say.” 

“ I ? I said nothing.” 

No, but you might have said something; it’s all a con- 
founded muddle. You and that girl ” D’Eath paused. 

After all Treherne had said nothing; it was only some- 
how, quite vaguely in the air that he and Susie were siding 
with each other. He was exasperated with him, with 
Susie, most of all with himself, the way he seemed to 
be forced into upholding the very conventionalities which 
he hated. 

Susie slipped from her seat on the window-sill; there 
was a distinct increase of color in her face, but her eyes 
were alight with amusement. “ If any one can lend me 
some paper and an envelope, I’ve got my own fountain- 
pen; there’s a letter I want to write,” she said. 

At this D’Eath also moved forward into the circle of 
light, glancing at her unhappily, like a suspicious child — 
Treherne was busy at a side table, collecting odds and ends 
from a cupboard, putting them into his bag — even if the 
confession had to be made there was no need to be in 
such a hurry about it. That was just like a woman! No 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


248 

sooner had the thought formed itself than he squirmed; 
it was exactly what the Squire of Thorns always said : 
^‘You women!” “Just like women!” Oh yes, he was 
precisely the same as all of them. Had to be, that was 
the very mischief of it ! 

“What do you want to write?” said D’Eath. His 
voice dragged. He was depressed almost to tears by 
the very thought of taking up that old life which had 
never suited him; had always, in its elaborate littleness, 
seemed too much for him. “ Why should you write — 
to-night?” 

“ Only just to send some one my address.” 

“ It’s no good sending any one your address — from here. 
Even that friend of yours — Rosie what’s-her-name ? — she 
would let them know. They would all come up. They’d 
say — oh, you know what they’d say ! ” D’Eath spoke 
almost angrily; then his voice dropped to the old note of 
appeal. “ Best leave it for to-night. Though, of course, 
I know we’ve got to go back, sooner or later — to-morrow 
by rights, I suppose.” 

“Go back? To-morrow! Not if I know it! To please 
nobody, not even ourselves? That’s what you’ve been 
doing all your life, just lying down, letting them wipe their 
feet on you. Oh, don’t think I don’t know — ^haven’t I 
seen it? But, anyhow, this letter has nothing to do with 
them, or Rosie either; I’ve left all that behind. It’s to a 

friend of my own ” She hesitated, staring rather 

hardly at her father, on the defensive against that sort of 
questioning which all young people hate. “A friend I 
made for myself — worth every one of them put together, 
so there ! ” 

Ah, well, said D’Eath, turning a little sideways, one 
shoulder higher than the other, stuttering a trifle' in his 
delicate endeavor to disclaim any undue interest in his 
daughter’s friends. “ Blood, and all that; it’s all very well 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


249 

in its way — ^very nice. But sometimes, don’t you know, 
sometimes it’s too sticky, and sometimes it’s too thin, and, 
after all, it’s chosen for us. Anyhow — well, there’s noth- 
ing in the world like a friend of one’s own — not choosing, 
that sounds too deliberate — but one’s own finding, not 

even introduced ■” Susie glanced up quickly with 

flushed face, but her father’s gaze had slid past her, 
was resting upon Treherne’s back — just chanced 
upon.” 

D’Eath and Treherne thrashed out the whole question 
of Susie late that night, long after she herself was fast 
asleep between the odoriferous sheets. 

It had been past twelve before the doctor got back. 
“ Upon my soul, D’Eath, one might imagine that the 
woman did it on purpose,” he said. If there is any 
single complication in what ought to be a perfectly simple 
process with a female of that caliber, she’s certain sure to 
hit upon it. I sometimes think that Wing, with those eyes 
of his — a slant and a cast and a leer — must have over- 
looked her.” 

He picked up a grimy glove which lay upon the table 
and stared at it gravely; then straightened it out, laid it 
down with a curiously lingering touch, leaned forward in 
his chair and poured out a cup of the almost black tea 
which O’Hagan had put ready for him. 

I wonder that stuff doesn’t keep you awake.” 

“ Nothing makes any difference. I sleep or don’t sleep 
— not much, anyhow. I’m worried out of my life, that’s 
the truth of it, D’Eath. The Lord knows there’s enough 
for me to do here, more than any one man can get 
through, particularly now without Nurse Fenton, who 
understood the ropes.” Nurse Fenton had left for France 
a little more than a week earlier. ‘‘ Upon my soul, there 
are times when I don’t know which way to turn; what 
it’s safest to leave undone, that’s what it comes to. Oh, 


250 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


yes, I know I’m frightfully needed here; there’s the next 
generation to think of, the re-making of the race, and 
it’s not the job for an elderly man in a rough place like 
this. All the same, my conscience won’t let me alone. I 
can’t tell you what it meant to let that girl go and see 
myself sticking here in safety; and yet half the time I felt 
that even she had no business to go, as though her ven- 
turing were half shirking. Talk of virtue being its own 
reward! What can a fellow make of it when he’s doing 
the things he believes to be right, hates doing, and yet 
feels that it’s altogether wrong? There’s no man worth 
his salt who wouldn’t rather be out at the front than 
anywhere else just now, particularly a man of my pro- 
fession — look at the experience of it, apart from any- 
thing else. If it was a matter of inclination I’d be off 
to-morrow.” 

‘‘ If one could only be sure what was right, life would 
be pretty simple.” 

“ You feel it too. By Jove, how this war is altering 
things, mixing up one’s values! ” Treherne leaned back in 
his chair, his pipe between his teeth, stretching out his 
long legs with the half-pained relief of an over-tired man; 
then picked up Susie’s glove again, frowned at it with 
an absent air, and folded it neatly, smoothing out the 
creases. “ That girl of yours, D’Eath, she was always 
different. I remember thinking that when she was the 
merest child.” 

“ She’s nothing but a child now.” 

“ Not she. Most girls of her age would be, I grant 
that. In her station they nip ’em off, keep ’em back until 
every natural feeling, every impulse is atrophied. But 
Susie’s a reversion — a primitive. It ’ud be no use trying 
to keep her potted down; she’d break out, spill all over 
the place. She’s bound to have room to spread, or there’ll 
be trouble.” 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


251 


It’s difficult to know what to do, what it is girls want. 
There’s my second daughter. She was mad for a higher 
education — college; she’s had it all, but she’s done noth- 
ing with it — except talk.” 

“ D’Eath, look here, there’s one thing I’m certain sure 
of. Life’s the only sort of college for a woman, an’ she’ll 
get a deuce of a deal out of it too; garner up her smallest 
patch of wild oats, pass it all on. They yap about the 
higher education, but they don’t know what to do with it 
when they’ve got it; for all that sort of thing’s imper- 
sonal, and they’re intensely personal. They can’t mix up 
the two lives like a man ; they warp all one way or another. 
If they haven’t got a baby to hug they’ll hug a cat or a 
Pekinese. Half the women in the world become cranks 
simply because they are kept back from the natural life 
at the very time nature had them ripe, and not over-ripe, 
for it. Look at all this outcry against war- weddings, 
boy-and-girl weddings, everything done in a hurry! Well, 
that’s natural — ^that’s the way it ought to be. ‘ The very 
idea of children of your age falling in love ! ’ That’s 
what people say, having extended childhood to an alto- 
gether artificial length ; flying straight in the face of 
nature, who’s explicit enough there, the Lord knows. You 
can’t play any of those sort of hanky-panky tricks with 
Susie; she’s a woman and she knows it, and the boys will 
know it too. Good God, it sometimes makes me sick to 
see the way you people save your daughters for some 
middle-aged, worn-out man of the world. Down here 
pretty well every boy’s married before he’s two-and-twenty ; 
the girls before they’re twenty. Oh yes, you all throw up 
your hands in despair over these improvident marriages; 
but it’s not the marriage that’s at fault, it’s the patchy 
way in which civilization really considers, cares for its 
citizens.” 

“ It’s all very well for you to talk, but they’ll pack Susie 


252 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


off to school again directly I get her back — and I shan’t 
dare to interfere.” 

“ You’re a coward, D’Eath.” 

“ I know I am. Still, there’s an old saying which 
declares it better to be sure than sorry, and it’s a dan- 
gerous thing to play tricks with a young girl’s life.” 

My dear fellow ! Isn’t that what you all do, have 
been doing for centuries^ ‘ playing tricks ’ ? ” 

'‘Well, I suppose she’s got to be educated,” persisted 
D’Eath weakly, finding a sort of comfort in repeating 
what other people — whom he did not in the least agree 
with — had said upon the subject. 

"Educated for what? Look here, my friend, if we 
don’t want to be wiped out in the next big war, it’s a 
school for mothers that we want. Anyhow, she’ll learn 
more of real life here in a month than she’ll ever learn 
in any school.” 

" It’s the neighborhood — at her age.” 

" It seems to me that she’s just the right age. She 
won’t see far enough to be broken down with it, and she’ll 
be learning so much all at the same time that one-half 
of it will slide off her back. Look here, D’Eath, it comes 
to this ” — Treherne leaned forward, emphasizing his words 
with the stem of his pipe upon his open hand — " there’s 
been a fresh swing of the pendulum since your other 
daughter insisted upon college, clamored for equal rights 
with men. If the women get the vote now they’ll trouble 
precious little about it. The quite new ones don’t want 
that sort of thing: they want to be certain sure of their 
own rights as women. You let that girl of yours have 
it all ways — ministering angel and all that business which 
we fools had got into the way of laughing at. Any- 
how, stay on here for a week or so, see how it works. 
She’ll be safe enough — safer than in the West End — 
alone, and she’s got to learn to go alone. There’s no 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 253 

time, or ought to be no time, for spoon-feeding any one 
in these days. Miss Villiers will have an eye to her. 
Well, look here, it hasn’t hurt her n^uch, and yet she’s 
been down here every day of her life for pretty well ten 
years, was here when I came. She’s not trained like 
Nurse Fenton, but upon my word there’s precious little 
about the human soul that girl doesn’t know : besides, she’s 
a lady — there’s no manner of doubt about that — ‘ county,’ 
too, I believe, and little as I ever thought it of you, 
D’Eath, I believe that’s a fact which will serve to make 
you easier in your mind at this juncture.” Treherne 
grinned. “ How are the mighty fallen — ‘ The county ! ’ 
Oh, well, I suppose it’s got to be, carries its own consola- 
tion — like rum and true religion, both good in moderation, 
strictly in moderation ! ” 

Well, it seems to me — I speak as an amateur, after all 
this is the first time I’ve ever had the chance of deciding 
anything for any one of my children — that parentage forces 
one to a sort of damned reiteration. Take all the declama- 
tions against public schools : people still enter their sons the 
week they’re born. The maddest bohemians, artists, social- 
ists, love to send their boys to Eton. We get frightened, 
lose our nerve ; it’s a sort of stutter of heredity — an echo.” 

Well, you’ve tried it with — Lord, how many children 
have you, D’Eath? — a round dozen or so — let Miss Susie 
go free; tear out that insane root of habit, just for this 
once; keep it for your grandchildren. As to your great- 
grandchildren, there’s no knowing what w^ may be by the 
time they’re ready to be educated : running wild — woad the 
only wear, likely enough. Just woad — all memory of syn- 
thetic dyes clean wiped out. It’s well within the bounds of 
possibility that this war may go on until every nation’s 
drawn into it. People will forget what they’re fighting for, 
who were their original enemies. All the allied nations will 
go back on each other, the most loosely knit and idealistic 


254 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


— what Miss Susie would describe as ‘ the sloppy ones ’ — 
first. Then there’ll be revolutions, civil war, guerilla war- 
fare. All arts and literature will be bound to go; no one 
will have time or thought for anything save the bare neces- 
sities of life ,* drama — drama of a spectacular sort, lewd or 
murderous, will hang out the longest; then that’ll go, too. 
Science will fizzle out, industry — all these things need some- 
thing of the communistic spirit, and there will be no chance 
of that with every man at his neighbor’s throat. There will 
be nothing grown save what each man can scratch out for 
himself upon his own particular hill-side. Why hill-side? 
Well, a man won’t dare to work in any place where he’s 
likely to be overlooked, will choose a point of vantage, his 
back to some sort of w^all. Ten to one he won’t work at all, 
but see his squaw do it while he watches, lazes, fights. 
There will be no manufactories, because there will be no 
labor, no raw material ; even if such things were attempted, 
started, the output would be stolen or destroyed before it 
could be finished. 

** Nations have gone to pieces like that again and again. 
Why not a conglomeration of nations, the whole world? 
Picture your descendants, D’Eath, ‘ County ’ still, but of 
the earth, earthy: heavy-browed, naked, suspicious, prowl- 
ing; thinly scattered because of the chances against any 
woman bringing her child to a safe birth. A wild beast or 
so escaped from a menagerie — a single bomb might do it — 
and England overrun with bears, wolves. I’m not joking, 
D’Eath, ’pon my soul I’m not. It’s not a matter for joking. 
Sometimes I seem to see it ” Treherne had been walk- 

ing up and down the room as he spoke. Now he moved to 
the window, pulled aside a comer of the blind and peered 
out. “ Here now, for instance, the river walls all broken, 
naked men in their coracles fishing amid the swamps. Oh, 
it won’t begin in England, we’ve the habit of order. Nor in 
France either, they know too well what revolution means, 
the sort of beast man becomes without law and order — 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


255 


without even the tribal honor of savages; for a convert to 
savagery is like every other convert — out-herods Herod. 
But when it once gets started it will spread like wildfire. 
First the prostitution of nations by paid agitators, then 
anarchy, plunder, murder, rape, starvation. And mind 
you, D’Eath, starvation among a people is like frost in a 
wall, it splits and crumbles in every conceivable fashion, 
spreads its long cracks almost beyond the bounds of imagi- 
nation ” 

Here Treherne broke off with the uneasy laugh of a man 
who has been carried out of himself. “ Good heavens, what 
an oration! Do you know that it’s just on two o’clock? 
What did it all start with ? That girl of yours ” — ^he turned, 
blinking a little in the light of the lamp, his eyes bright and 
troubled, as those of a man who has looked upon some dark 
vision — I must be mad, but things seem to have been 
getting upon my nerves lately. The result of being pulled 
too many ways all at once, I suppose; feeling oneself, the 
whole world, so absolutely incapable of grappling with things 
as they are — worse still, as they’re going to be. But all the 
same there was some method in my effusion — or anyhow in 
what it started out to be. For what we stand to need more 
than anything else in the years before us is endurance and 
competence in the handling of the common things of life. 
The bringing up of our children, if we have them ; the filling 
of some real need. No more tinkling on the piano, sketching 
from nature, the sort of thing the barren and unmated 
masses used, much as a bereaved mother uses poppy heads 
upon her breasts. It was all well enough in its way, but 
we’re bound to get back to the hard facts of life before 
we’ve done with this. Even Mrs. Sen — well, she is doing 
something; anyhow more than that Mrs. What-do-you-call- 
her you told me of, with her fool birds’ nests ; doing it in the 
damnedest, awkwardest way imaginable, but still doing it. 
I thought of that this evening, and I tell you I needed some- 
thing of the sort to help me through.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


Time slipped on, and Hugh DTath came to no special 
conclusion respecting the course which he ought to pursue. 
It was as Treherne said: directly you did the thing which 
seemed right it had a chameleon-like habit of becoming 
wrong: if you deliberately did wrong you were still tor- 
mented by the thought of what would certainly have been 
right — until you tried it. Only in the second instance you 
pleased yourself and in the first you pleased nobody ; least 
of all that grinning, sub-conscious self which poses, at one 
moment as conscience — a conscience worthy of a school- 
marm — and at another shows itself in its true light as the 
ribald egger-on, the instigator, of every sort of mischief. 

After all, thought D’Eath, supposing that he did go home 
with Susie, make his confession, there would be an endless 
series of scenes, recriminations. Of course it was the right, 
the only thing to do. But then, was it? No sooner had he 
made his mind up on this point than he was confronted by 
the uselessness of sacrificing himself, Susie, the confusion 
which would be caused by such a reappearance. 

For all intents and purposes he was comfortably settled 
in Nauheim, and everybody was contented. Sometimes he 
wished that he were as comfortably dead as the man in 
Arnold Bennett’s book “ Buried Alive ” ; though even that 
happiness did not last. D’Eath’s sub-conscious self, for the 
moment Puritanical, told him that nothing in the way of 
deception could last; though, even then, he was obliged to 
suppress his memory of cases in which it had been an un- 
doubted success. 

Still, the whole affair slid. Susie, with infinite tact, took 
everything for granted ; allowed nothing to be put into words 

256 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


257 


ftiore definite than “ Oh, well, we shall see,” It was the 
one trick she had learnt from Mary, in her own way every 
bit as obstinate as her young sister. She was careful not to 
arouse any spirit of opposition in her father. When he 
said “We must go home,” she agreed with him : upon which 
he immediately began to wonder why they should do any- 
thing of the sort. 

Meanwhile her life slipped into a sort of routine, which 
gave them both a sense of security. She helped her father 
in the adjustment of matrimonial quarrels, for D’Eath had 
become an adept at this sort of thing, was also regarded as 
a high authority in any legal matters, such as the position 
of Mrs. Flanagan, who had emptied a slop-bucket out of her 
own window — her own window, mind you, and where else 
should she empty it? — upon the head of the one-time Mrs. 
Muller, who threatened the extremest penaltites of the law. 
She also took Nurse Fenton’s place in keeping Treherne’s 
surgery clean and tidy for him, and accompanied Miss 
Villiers on her rounds. More than once she had gone off 
alone, made some patient comfortable for the night when 
the elder woman was more than usually rushed. She was a 
great deal too cocksure, took far too much upon herself; 
but she was thoroughly contented, there was no mistake 
about that, and the corners were wearing off her. 

Lucelle Villiers, quiet, observant, a little mocking in a 
tolerant sort of fashion, had her share in smoothing her 
out ; she never had to speak twice on any question of dress 
or dignity, important matters in Wapping, for Susie had a 
shrewd idea that she would never trouble to do so, would 
just leave her alone, and she dreaded this. Nothing im- 
presses the young, the raw and jerky, more than poise: and 
in this particular Miss Villiers was perfect. 

But that was not the only influence at work upon Susie. 
One day, going into her room for something, D’Eath saw 
a young man’s photo propped against the looking-glass ; she 


258 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


received numerous letters, which she put in her pocket un- 
opened with a vivid blush. 

At first she had tried to waylay the postman. Then 
finding that no one remarked upon her correspondence she 
took to receiving it openly. Sometimes O’Hagan would 
say : “ Pretty constant ’and with the pen, ain’t ’e ? ” — but 
O’Hagan did not count. In a matter like this every one had 
the right to banter excepting a relation. If her father had 
said anything she would have been up in arms at once. 

But he said nothing; and after a while she began to 
resent this as showing lack of interest. The letters be- 
came less frequent, displaying the field postmark. But still 
D’Eath said nothing, for he had the happy faculty of re- 
membering his own youth, his own self-consciousness — 
worn raw by the comments of a large family — even now 
more sensitive than Susie’s could ever be. 

Susie’s secretiveness was far less deeply rooted than his 
own, because she was more certain that everything she did 
was right. Very shortly she began openly to brandish her 
letters: gave forth her opinions on military affairs backed 

by “ A man I know says ” : more than once she declared 

with meaning that she was too worried for anything. ‘‘ You 
people don’t seem to realize, in the very least, what it’s like 
out there : what war really means.” 

Then came a considerable interval with no letter; ten 
days or more — during which Susie sought comfort, not 
from Miss Villiers, whom she believed to have a soul above 
such things, nor from Treherne, in whose company she 
seemed to have developed a sort of watchfulness, an atti- 
tude as though poised for flight — but from her father, 
whom she knew to be romantic, who read poetry. 

By this time they had a fire each evening in the round- 
windowed room at the pier house. Tea, since Susie’s ad- 
vent, had grown to be a sort of ritual, instead of just one 
cup with a damp slice of bread and butter in the saucer. 


WHILE THERE^S LIFE 


259 


Susie loved a real tea, with bread and butter and cake; 
she made toast by the fire. If there was any chance of 
Treherne joining them a lavish slice was covered with butter 
and kept hot between two plates on the old-fashioned hob. 
For the girl was unceasingly anxious for his comfort — 
despite that lift of the wings. 

She launched forth upon her confidence suddenly, in- 
coherently; on the hearthrug at her father’s feet, the fire 
poked and raked to a fine redness. “ Of course, if any one 
was killed somebody would write to the person he wrote to 
most, particularly if he carried her — oh, well, his, its — any- 
body’s — letters next his — in his breast pocket — unless they 
were shot away, unless — anyhow, it would be in the paper 
if any one was wounded or missing.” 

It’s sometimes very difficult to find time to write.” 

Oh, yes, perhaps, with some people ; they’ll let any old 
thing come in the way. But this isn’t at all that sort of 
person. I don’t suppose you’ve noticed, but I did get letters 
— awfully regularly! I can tell you, he’s the sort to stick 
to a thing. He’s ” 

After that it was all out. She had met him during that 
wild goose chase. Japheta in search of a father. “ Anyhow, 
I owe you that much, you old dear,” she said, and squeezed 
back against her father’s knees, rubbing a hot cheek upon 
his hand, generously allowing him that much.” If it 
hadn’t been for thinking you were in Nauheim we mightn’t 
have run against each other for ages. Though of course 
we should have met: it was all pre — what do you call it? 
I knew that directly I saw him.” Here Susie’s memory 
rather than her veracity, failed her, gone all remembrance 
of that meditated gift, of a white feather. ‘‘What is it? 
— oh, pre-ordained! Of course, when it is the real thing, 
absolutely the thing, the person, there can be no mistake, 
can there ? ” It appeared that he had been obliged to stay 
in Folkestone that first day, the day she had met her 


26 o 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


father. Almost directly afterwards he had gone out to 
France, with his old mouse-trap of a motor-bike.” 

D’Eath knew when the young man’s exact words were 
being repeated by the inflection of Susie’s voice ; it became 
apparent that he used less slang than she did. They had 
written, and written — and written. Of course they had 
come to know each other better like that; but anyhow they 
were sure, quite sure. He won’t have any sort of en- 
gagement, because he says that I’m only a kid.” D’Eath 
wondered what would have happened if he had dared to 
voice such an idea. “ But of course we both know that 
nothing, nothing in the whole world can keep us apart. I’m 
quite sure of him, and of course I’m absolutely certain that 
I will never — could never change.” 

“ Upon my word, of course you’re very young and all 
that — but I don’t think you will, you’re not the sort.” 
D’Eath was sure of it; for all her waywardness there was 
something stable about Susie, a real backbone. He be- 
lieved in her absolutely, was thrilled to his heart’s core; 
here at last was love, the sort of love which he had always 
dreamt of, as romantic as he could wish it to be. He 
absolutely pooh-poohed all idea of them waiting until they 
were as old as old,” as Susie put it ; one could always rub 
along somehow, and life together might be such a lark when 
one was still young enough to play, to make-believe. He 
was told the whole story of that gallant aeroplane affair ; 
did not say that the young man was hopelessly rash, not fit 
to be trusted with a wife, as ninety-nine grown-ups out of 
a hundred would have done, only : Come, now, that is the 
sort of fellow for a lover ! ” He inquired as to the color 
of his prospective son-in-law’s hair, and remarked with 
delight that it showed the truth of the old adage, “ Ginger 
for pluck ! ” — ^but he never even thought of asking what the 
young couple expected to live upon. 

“He’s only a sort of an oldish boy himself,” thought 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


261 

Susie, looking up and seeing his flushed face, shining eyes. 
In love as she was, it made her feel, not exactly superior, 
but mature ; how could she know that he had been waiting 
for a love affair — any one’s so long as it were the real 
thing — for the best part of thirty years? 

They were still talking when Treherne came in and 
picked a blackened slice of bread out of the grate ; follow- 
ing Susie with his eyes as she slipped from the room with 
some muttered excuse about washing her hands. 

Late that evening they were all sitting round the fire 
after supper. The autumnal gales had begun, and the wind 
was booming up the river, broken by the deep, plaintive note 
of the sirens, like prehistoric river beasts bellowing for 
their young. The tide was coming in and the ships with it, 
even Susie was river-wise enough to know that by now; 
following the sound of siren, steam tug and police whistle, 
the slap of waves against the quay, the creaking pull of 
anchored barges. 

The girl had some sewing in her lap, a lamentable attempt 
at a nightgown for the latest Sen infant; but she had for- 
gotten it, was staring into the fire, with a tender half smile 
upon her face. 

A pregnant, significant silence lay heavy upon the warm 
room, intensified by the turmoil outside. Treherne was not 
a talkative man, unless he happened to be inspired to some 
such sudden outburst as that which marked the evening of 
Susie’s arrival in Wapping ; but quite suddenly it seemed to 
D’Eath’s sensitive mind that there was a difference in his 
silence, while that side of the room was clear of smoke. He 
realized this, the whole sense of strangeness, before he 
actually glanced at his friend; then he caught his breath 
sharply. Treherne’s pipe was out ; his face bore exactly the 
same expression as Susie’s, and it was at Susie that he was 
looking. 

For a moment D’Eath seemed to draw his whole being 


262 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


in upon himself, as one does in any moment of sudden 
pain. That Treherne Oh, but it was out of the ques- 

tion, impossible; it would be too cruel, he told himself 
fiercely. Then he asked the girl to run up to his room and 
see if he had left his note-book in the pocket of his wet 
coat when he changed it for tea. 

The doctor looked up as the girl rose, moved to the 
door ; then his glance turned again towards the chair where 
she had been sitting. To D’Eath, with the memory of what 
he had heard only that evening, the expression upon the 
other man’s face was almost beyond bearing, and he got up 
hurriedly, felt along the mantelshelf for the matches, drop- 
ping his pipe with a rattle into the grate. 

Oh, damn it all ! Why can’t you ” began Tre- 

herne, then rose hastily, and moving across to the window 
lifted one corner of the jealously drawn blind. ‘‘ There’s 

no end of a storm blowing up Sorry, D’Eath, old man, 

I don’t know what’s coming to me, nice sort of nerves 
for a fellow with other people’s lives in his hands. But 
the fact is I nearly jumped out of my skin when you 
dropped that pipe, must have been half asleep. Nothing 
broken, I hope ? ” 

‘‘ No. No, nothing broken.” 

‘‘ Oh, well, that’s one good thing, anyhow,” remarked 
Treherne; then turned towards his writing-table and began 
collecting his papers, piling them, with shaking hands, into 
one indiscriminate heap. 

Susie’s next letter was the merest scrawl, little more 
than a line. Mark Fulton wrote that they had “ got him ” 
— a bit of shrapnel in one leg, nothing to worry about; 
‘‘ good luck ” if only Susie would look at it in the right 
way, for ten to one it meant a run home, and he would see 
her again. 

Despite all her rawness, Susie had plenty of intuition; 
something in the very lightness of the tone of that letter 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


263 

awed her. She said very little, kept on steadily with her 
work. She quite ceased to speak of her anxieties, to give 
herself the airs of one who knew ; but they all realized 
that something was amiss, even O’Hagan, who took to 
bringing her strange gifts, polished her shoes until they 
shone like glass. As to Treherne, he watched her with a 
sad sort of mockery, altogether for himself, not at all for 
Susie. 

‘‘ After all,” he said, “ it’s the greatest time youth has 
ever known. It mayn’t last long, but what single one of 
those young ’uns, marching forward with their fellows, 
swept high upon the tide of life, even knowing the end, 
would change places with us of another generation — policed 
back by Time, by every sort of tie, a conglomeration of 
tame duties?” 

D’Eeath saw little of his friend in these days, for it 
seemed that Treherne was for ever at work. “ He’ll kill 
himself if he goes on like this,” said Lucelle Villiers, re- 
monstrating to no purpose. Even when he was at home he 
spent the greater part of his time busy in his surgery. 

After a while Fulton was moved to a base hospital, and 
more definite news was received, from his colonel, from the 
doctor, and the sister who attended him. It was this latter 
who wrote, after a long break in those cheery penciled 
notes to which Susie had become accustomed, saying that 
the amputation of the right leg had been found necessary, 
but that Mr. Fulton was going on well. 

Even then there was no break in Susie’s round of activi- 
ties, but she was slower in her movements and speech: 
slower and more deliberate in all that she did. There was 
trouble on every side, and a good deal of illness, particularly 
among the children, while the excitement, the sense of 
elation which had come with those first two or three months 
of the war was over. It seemed that even in Wapping the 
people were at last growing up. 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


264 

I’ll see them through the worst of the winter,” said 
Treherne, “ and then I think that I ought to be free to go. 
This darned war, it’s upset all one’s values — made one feel 
things in a way that I could have sworn was impossible — 
appallingly old, and yet dangerously young.” 

They saw more of Lucelle Villiers than they had once 
done. Sometimes D’Eath thought that it was merely Susie’s 
presence which attracted the feminine element; then he 
found himself wondering if it could be that she cared for 
Treherne, half envying the other man. “ She is like the 
moon,” he thought one day, seeing her among a group of 
children waiting in the hall for some minor attention : aloof, 
and yet effulgent, carrying with her a sense of peace and 
order. 

He took to watching her. She was much the same age 
as his daughter Mary — at least, so Susie had informed him, 
and yet at the same time how much younger and how much 
more mature. It was amusing to see her in the midst of 
one of those loud-voiced arguments so characteristic of the 
East End, when it seems certain that the very next moment 
the disputants must be at each other’s throats. She had a 
way of standing with her hands clasped in front of her, 
saying nothing, while every sort of passion wore itself to 
rags and tatters. For if ever any woman had a real gift 
for silence it was Lucelle Villiers. 

Once when the O’Flanagans and Ryans raged most 
fiercely round her, during a famous battle in King’s Head 
Alley, in which there was actual bloodshed, with broken 
bottles and copper sticks as weapons, D’Eath saw her — 
standing back upon a doorstep in her unruffled cotton dress 
and white apron — ^take out her watch and glance at it, then 
put one hand to her mouth and yawn. 

It was not a pose, she was like that. Any sort of a 
scene bored her ; the people knew this, and it affected them 
with a sort of childish shame. “ But why all this fuss ? ” 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


265 

she would say, quite pleasantly, glancing round at the 
mottled, empurpled faces, and leave them without any 
answer. 

It was close on Christmas, and Susie was still at the 
pier-end house. It seemed as though she had almost for- 
gotten Dene Royal, had launched herself forward heart 
and soul towards the time when — and it might be any day 
now — Fulton should be brought back to England. One 
and all they held grimly to their work, though there was 
none of the old pleasure and satisfaction in it. There 
seemed so many more important things, bigger things, 
which they ought to be doing. '' Rottin’ ’ere, an’ that there 

b ^y scrap goin’ on all the while ! ” this was what 

O’Hagan said — what they all felt with a sense of staleness 
and bewilderment. 

It was close on Christmas when Treherne came home 
one evening with a look of dismay, mingled with a certain 
grim amusement, upon his face. 

“ Look here, D’Eath, what do you think I’ve just heard? 
Awfully sad thing and all that — but, I say, man, this puts 
the lid on pretty well everything so far as you’re concerned, 
doesn’t it? — ^poor old Whitacre’s dead, been dead a month 
or more. At least, it must be him, his people seem to take 
it for granted; of course, there’s no definite news, but the 
account tallies. An Englishman of about fifty, who arrived 
out there just as war broke out; the only one ” 

“ You forget ” — Hugh D’Eath glanced up at him with 
whimsical, short-sighted eyes, stuttering a little — “ you for- 
get, th-th-there’s me! It might have been — it — it — ^by Jove, 
for all any one knows — it may he me I ” 


CHAPTER XXIX 


\ 


To declare that the weakness of English country people 
lies in the limitation of their outlook is the merest platitude, 
but it is difficult to express platitudinous people in any other 
way. 

If the D’Eaths and Colburns could have seen beyond the 
family nose they would have realized that more than one 
elderly gentleman might have arrived in Bad Nauheim upon 
the same day. 

It was Kiddington’s cousin who procured the news of 
the decease, gave it for what it was worth, and as — though 
his body was pretty constantly in the House of Lords — 
Kiddington’s mind never budged from the Midlands, the 
conclusions he drew were bound to be local. 

One scarcely likes to say anything, you know, but there’s 
not the very faintest doubt that it’s poor old Hugh D’Eath ; 
he was in a bad state of health when he went out, we knew 
that any sort of shock ” etc. 

To do them all justice, Whitacre’s name had been sedu- 
lously suppressed. There might have been some idea 
among the German authorities that by this means the other 
Englishman with the ominous name — so obviously a cipher 
— might be led to reveal himself. More than this, when 
further inquiries were set on foot through neutral channels 
Teutonic humor took the form of declaring ‘‘ Herr Death 
is dead ” ; while there was a continuous poring of experts 
over those innocent letters, too innocent as it seemed, which 
had accumulated from Mary and the aunts, letters with the 
incriminating heading of " Dene Royal ” — obviously Church 
and State — while added to these, and most incriminating of 
all, were D’Eath’s own letters, letters which purported to 

266 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


267 

come from that adorable health resort, describing the pros- 
pect, the mountains, the salt works with their ozone evapo- 
rations, the Kurhaus, the Kurpark, the baths, the concerts, 
the fishing, the boating at Nauheim, all alike penned by a 
man who was obviously in London and not in Germany at 
all. 

“ Troubles never come singly,” that was what Mary said 
— what she would say. Somehow or other Peggy had man- 
aged to edge her out of Dene Royal, and she was at But- 
tons, where Irene had been, very reluctantly, compelled to 
join her, for it was impossible to live as they were accus- 
tomed to live unless their incomes were united. To no 
single member of the family had there yet come the very 
faintest inkling of the truth that nothing could, ever again, 
be as it had been; that the whole world was cast into the 
melting-pot; that people like themselves — firm set for cen- 
turies — would, more than any other class, suffer from this 
change, this fluidity; that they would, one and all, be like 
Old Mother Trot with her petticoats “ cut round about,” 
scarcely knowing if they were themselves, most of all balked 
by the fact that their inferiors had — like the ‘‘ little dog ” — 
ceased to recognize them as persons of any special impor- 
tance; realizing — if they were acute enough to realize it — 
that they were as open to criticism as, say, their own 
servants, hitherto the most criticized of all peoples. 

Mary went up to London for a night or so to stay with 
her aunts, and people were rude to her, they pushed and 
jostled. As Aunt Aggie said, “ London is not what it used 
to be,” and she was glad to be back; even at Suttons, cold 
and damp for the lack of sufficient fires. 

She had gone up to town to buy mourning, because the 
aunts said that was what she ought to do. But she had 
not bought it. To wear mourning if her father were still 
alive seemed dreadful ; not to wear it seemed equally dread- 
ful, perhaps more so. Nothing was settled as it used to be 


268 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


settled, and Mary was very unhappy. For the time being 
that question of mourning obscured her entire horizon. She 
tried to compromise with gray and mauve, but there was no 
real comfort in that, for she was one of those people who 
see everything in clear black or white. 

Peggy had a succession of visitors at Dene Royal. It 
was always : ‘‘ Poor darling ” So-and-so just for one 
night.” She held tightly to every privilege with the hard 
tenacity of her kind : hunting, dancing at balls in aid of the 
Red Cross, getting up private theatricals, also in aid of the 
Red Cross; when there were no visitors at home she was 
up in London, selling programs or helping at monster 
bazaars, with a fresh costume for every occasion. She did 
not ask George for money in these days, just bought what 
she fancied and trusted him to pay for it. 

George had believed that any fool could manage a woman. 

A firm hand, that’s all they want,” he had said, reflect- 
ing the Squire of Thorns with his “ Keep ’em on the 
curb.” 

Old Roger Colburn did not manage his wife, though he 
thought he did; she went her own way like a sheep at a 
gap. He had unending disputes with the shopkeepers, whom 
he abused, cursed, and left ; failing to realize that in a week 
their successors inevitably committed themselves beyond 
redemption, while Mrs. Colburn returned again to the trades- 
men of her own choice. Certainly he was allowed to read 
the Morning Post unsullied by feminine fingers; but that 
was merely owing to the fact that his wife never looked at 
a paper unless she happened to be in need of a servant. 
‘‘ It only upsets me, so why should I ? ” that was what she 
said. She never shut a window when her husband opened 
it, at least so long as he was in the room, only shivered 
or asked for a shawl ; upon which he would bang it to him- 
self, reflecting with some pleasure on the fancifulness of 
women. These are small matters, but they typify an age 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 269 

when the weaker sex achieved its ends by wiles and tears, 
by “ humoring a man.” 

Peggy D’Eath, however, was of another generation ; she 
was bored with life and meant to show it ; she was tired of 
her husband, and keeping clear of any definite rupture, she 
let him know it. To her mind he was wholly responsible for 
that stupid deed of gift which had made life so much duller 
and more restricted than it need have been. “We can’t go 
on throwing money about like this; you forget we have a 
position to keep up,” George would say; sometimes he 
would even stoop to plead with her, and that was fatal. 

“ After all, what does your precious position count for ? ” 
she would ask. “ Ten to one there’ll be a revolution or 
something after the war, and then where shall we be? 
Much better spend all our money and get some fun out of 
it. I think the Sinclairs’ plan is far more sensible than 
yours. Captain Sinclair puts every penny he doesn’t actu- 
ally want into pearls, and Nina has all the fun of them 
now ; then if the worst does come they will fetch their price, 
anyhow in America.” 

“ I don’t know about that. Ten to one America will be 
in the war before another year’s out.” 

“ What does that matter ? It will take more than a 
European war to stop American women buying pearls, or 
anything else they want. American men don’t get it all 
their own way, I can tell you that.” 

George found himself wondering if the English were 
really any more effectual in their own homes, with the blank 
despair of a man losing faith in the religion of his race. 
There was still no prospect of an heir, and by now Peggy 
was quite open about it : that was one good thing about the 
war, it provided a reason. 

“ To my mind, it would be absolutely criminal to have 
children at a time like this, with everything in such an un- 
certain state.” That was what she said, piously; then 


270 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


again : I can’t see what we’ve got to save for ; pretty well 
everything would be eaten up by the death dues, and, after 
all, we only have ourselves to think of.” 

When she spent a quarter’s household allowance on a 
gold-mesh bag, set with sapphires, she declared that anyhow 
she had something to show for the money, which would not 
have been the case had it all gone on the butcher’s and 
baker’s bills, wages, household equipment. 

Her obstinate refusal to realize that these things had to 
be paid for, anyhow, gave her an air of childish stupidity. 
But she was by no means stupid. She knew her husband 
and his family ; their punctilious sense of honor would never 
allow them to leave a debt unpaid, any more than George’s 
pride would allow him to repudiate those which his wife ran 
up on her own personal account. 

George himself was far from happy. Very slowly a 
dreadful doubt that he might prove to be, not exactly a 
failure, but inadequate to the times, was creeping in upon 
him. He had not been a success in his profession, but this 
he had put down to the jealousy of his colleagues, to the 
fact that he was not the sort of man to humiliate himself by 
kow-towing to foreigners. He had always felt that the 
position of a country gentleman was the one thing for which 
he was really suited; it was his ill fortune that he chanced 
to take up the reins at a time when every sort of value was 
changing. 

He had read Oliver’s “ Ordeal by Battle,” and the idea 
that a pilot who is perfectly capable of dealing with calms 
may be less capable of handling his ship in a tempest had 
impressed itself upon his mind. He forgot the rest of the 
book, but he remembered that because it took upon itself 
the likeness of a vague, personal reproach. 

Was he inadequate? At the meetings held to settle the 
local Red Cross affairs, in aid of recruiting, of propaganda 
work, he would sometimes find himself speaking — ^hear his 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


271 


own voice going on and on in a flow of well-oraered words, 
impeccable sentiments — and realize that no one was listen- 
ing to him, that nothing he said really hit home. 

He had never been very much of a man: was too much 
like a sofa, very well stuffed, nice firm cushions, and no 
real springs. Tall, well-built, beautifully proportioned, in- 
clined to a certain portliness, well-mannered, right-minded, 
he was still little more than the solidified echo of innumer- 
able country squires who had too little to contend against. 

There was, as yet, no rationing in England; it seemed 
inconceivable that there ever should be — but all the same, 
George D’Eath must have been going short of something he 
needed — it might have been his own self-satisfaction — 
for he began to lose flesh ; the tan buckskin waistcoat sagged 
a little. He did not stoop, but more than once Cherry re- 
marked that he sat his horse less squarely than he had done. 

** Good God, to look at the man and think that he’s only 
thirty! He ought to be in the war, instead of pottering 
about here — he might be fifty to hear him talk I ” 

Cherry himself was well over fifty, but he had always 
been young, always would be. As for going to the war, 
George never even thought of it. He took his own position 
as a married man, his responsibility as a landowner, far 
too seriously. 

The uncertainty as to his father’s fate hung over him 
like a cloud. Sometimes he wished to goodness that he 
would come back and take up his old place ; at other times 
he believed that if his death were once definitely estab- 
lished the tenants would be easier to manage, his wife more 
amenable to reason, realizing his obligations. 

It was a damp, drear winter. George, who did not hunt 
because he did not feel that it would be right, found him- 
self continually interfering in matters which he had much 
better have left alone, simply because he felt it necessary 
to be for ever busy, to assert himself. For the first time 


272 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


in his life he was realizing his own weakness, his limita- 
tions; the discovery was full of pathos, but without doubt 
it made him more difficult to get on with, fault-finding, 
querulous. 

At last even Mary turned upon him, because she did not 
dare to turn upon Peggy, who could lash with scorpions; 
and that alone showed to what a pass things were come, for 
she had always been a little afraid of George, admired him 
immensely, patronized her little sister-in-law.” 

** It was you who drove father away to his death. If it 
had not been for you — ^you and that horrid deed — I don’t 
believe he would ever have gone — at least, not at the last.” 

“ My dear Mary, if I remember rightly, it was you your- 
self who arranged everything with that doctor chap, before 
the deed was as much as spoken of.” 

** I know ; but that was before Peggy was taken ill, before 
I found I couldn’t go with father.” 

I fail to see what difference that made. Even you, my 
dear Mary, could scarcely have stemmed the tide of a world 
war.” George spoke coldly, nastily,” and the tears came 
into Mary’s shallow eyes. 

** Well, it did make a difference, it began unsettling things. 
If it hadn’t been for Peggy being taken ill, and all for 
nothing after all ” 

** I should have thought that you would be the last per- 
son to reproach me on that score,” answereid George stiffly, 
but his face whitened. He could never forgeit that child who 
had known no successor — or rather what it stood for. 

“ I’m sure I don’t want to hurt your feelir^s,^’ said Mary, 
“ and I dare say that it’s quite natural that you and Peggy 
should want your own house to yourselves, thbugh Peggy is 
always complaining about the servants. But things aren’t 
in the least like what they used to be in dear father’s time, 

^d there’s no use in pretending they are. Tire’s poor 
Charles now ^ 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


273 


“ I fail to see what there is * poor ’ about Charles.” 

“ Well, to come back to England on leave like that, after 
all he’s been through, and never even seen his old home.” 

‘‘ He did not see his old home because he preferred to 
remain in London with his own friends, his own amuse- 
ments. ‘ Poor Charles,’ indeed ! If you want to know why 
he stayed away, it was because he knew he couldn’t get any 
more money out of me. And not only that” — George’s 
smooth face flushed, he heard his own voice, as it might 
have been the voice of another man blaspheming ; but still he 
held on, with a passion so unlike him that it frightened 
Mary — “ because the place bores him — as it bores us all, 
if the truth were known.” 

“ Bores him ? Bores us ? Dene Royal ! Our dear old 
home 1 ” Mary was appalled as the meaning of her brother’s 
words grew in upon her. Then the sense of family outrage 
gave way to one of personal grievance. ‘‘ What would you 
say if you had to live at Buttons, with all the chimneys the 
wrong way for the wind? — with Irene and her impossible 
friends ! Irene, who talks about sex and all sorts of dread- 
ful things, before the servants too. Irene ” 

“Your own sister!” It was George’s turn to feel ap- 
palled. They had so prided themselves upon never having 
any rows, what were they coming to? He began again 
pompously : “ Really, my dear Mary, if you can’t manage to 

get on with your own sister ” and paused, as though 

her behavior, the behavior of women in general, was beyond 
all words. 

Mary had risen to her feet, flushed as he was. Her 
heart — at the back of the gray silk blouse and well-tailored 
coat — ^beat tumultuously; quite suddenly she realized an 
awful pleasure in saying things which she knew ought, in 
common decency, to remain unsaid. 

“Well, anyhow, I didn’t choose my sister. You did 
choose Peggy, and — and you’re no more happy with her 


274 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


than I am with Irene. We’re none of us happy! That 
just shows ! There is nothing settled, nothing comfortable 
like it used to be. I’m sure, when poor father was alive — ■ 
if he was alive— -if he is dead — if he knew how things were 

going on ” she ended incoherently in a burst of tears. 

Mary, the calm, the self-complacent! Mary, who had ruled 
Dene Royal and all who appertained to it with that mild 
justice which we might picture as distinguishing the Mother 
of the Gracchi ; realizing her duty, as she realized the duty 
of every cottager in Laishens, and exercising it in supreme 
and undisputed authority. Little wonder she lamented that 
nothing was as it had been — that she was “ upset,” 
‘‘ knocked up,” “ pulled down,” or whatever she might have 
called it. 


CHAPTER XXiX 


Young Mrs. D’Eath was becoming increasingly reckless. 
From the date of George’s first appeal to her better feelings 
she had begun to underrate him. She realized his pride, his 
sense of honor, and traded upon them; what she did 
not fully understand was the way in which vanity and 
self-esteem may come to take the place of nobler 
feelings. 

As life grew duller she took to playing with fire, at first 
tentatively, then more daringly. She was so perfectly cer- 
tain of herself that it gave her a false sense of security in 
dealing with other people. 

There was, among the many visitors to Dene Royal, a 
certain second cousin of her own, a Captain French, with 
whom she had been through a sort of love affair shortly 
before her marriage. 

She had never loved the man — had never loved any one 
but herself, did not know what it meant. But it amused 
her to imagine that this had been the one real passion of 
her life, and that Teddy French — who cared as little for 
her as she did for him — never had, never could love any 
other woman. 

Teddy’s regiment was stationed on the West Coast. He 
was always just off to the front and coming to Dene Royal 
for a last good-by ; but so far he had not gone. Sometimes 
George felt that he was there hanging about Peggy a great 
deal too much, that it did not look well; but he was not 
jealous. It was almost pathetic to think how, in spite of 
everything, he still persisted in the belief that the wife he 
had chosen could do no real wrong, place any one before 
him. 


275 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


276 

Then came a time when Teddy French received definite 
orders for the front. He came down for a few nights to 
Dene Royal, then went up to town to buy his field equip- 
ment. Upon this occasion he and Peggy showed their feel- 
ings, or what they were pleased to call feelings, far more 
plainly than they had ever allowed themselves to do before 
— hanging wreaths round each other, decorating the poor 
pinchbeck image of a divine thing. 

Captain French was expected back again — just for one 
night, to wish them all good-by the last night before his 
embarkation — when a telegram arrived for Peggy saying 
that her mother was ill and she must go at once. 

As it happened she had a slight cold and she magnified 
this, insisting upon it. Her experiments with private the- 
atricals. had endowed her with dramatic aspirations. She 
had set her heart upon a passionate farewell scene with 
her cousin, and not for worlds would she have relin- 
quished it. 

George declared that, cold or no cold, her duty was 
clear; she must go to her mother at once if she were ill. 
His own sense of family obligation was very strong, and, 
to do him justice, nothing save death would have prevented 
him from obeying such a summons. 

But his wife was of an altogether different caliber. 

And poor little me,” she said, “ I suppose no one cares 
what happens to poor little me. In weather like this — ^to 
go flying off, with this cold ; it would be madness ! Besides, 
what possible good could I do if I was ill when I got there, 
tell me that?” 

George insisted, but to no effect. Peggy declared that 
her mother would be the .very last person to wish her to 
sacrifice her own health, and in the end she had her own 
way. After all, he was as helpless with his wife as he 
had been with his employees over that right-of-way; he 
could no more take her by the scruff of her neck and lead 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


277 

her to her mother’s sick-bed than he could haul them all one 
after another into prison. 

As it happened, Teddy, really under orders this time, 
could not even stay the night. He appeared just after 
lunch the very next day, declaring that he was absolutely 
bound to leave before midnight, as they were off from 
Victoria at dawn. 

It was difficult to say what George guessed. Perhaps 
he guessed nothing, was merely bent on paying Peggy out 
for her obstinate refusal to go to her mother; though he 
might equally well have been dense enough to believe that 
it was he whom Captain French had come to visit. 

At any rate, he fetched the young man from the station 
himself — of course Peggy was not well enough to venture 
out— kept with them the whole of the afternoon; and then 
absolutely insisted, in a way that was impossible to resist, 
upon sending his wife to bed at ten o’clock. 

‘‘ She’s not at all well, French. She was too ill to go to 
her mother, even when they wired — has no business to 
be up.” 

“ Your things are all in the little blue dressing-room,” 
young Mrs. D’Eath told her cousin languidly when she 
wished him good-by. “ You’ll find them in the top drawer 
of the tail-boy,” she gave him one significant look as they 
shook hands and trailed from the room. 

Captain French had left certain articles of clothing at 
Dene Royal on the occasion of his last visit. He would go 
into the little blue room to fetch them, and there the fare- 
well scene might take place — ^pale blue silk dressing- 
gown, boudoir cap and all; far more effective than a for- 
mal parting in the hall, with George’s eye upon them 
both. 

But George, perfect host as he was, most punctilious 
where he cared least for his guest, accompanied his wife’s 
cousin in search of his belongings; then went on to her 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


278 

room to inquire if she knew where Collins kept the labels. 

Hearing him coming, Peggy flung off her dressing-gown 
and hopped into bed. When her husband remarked that 
he had never before seen her wearing a cap in bed, she 
answered that he seemed to forget that she had a cold, 
glancing at him, as he fumbled over her writing-table 
drawers, with something very like real hatred. How tire- 
some he was, how dull, how slow ! 

By the time the labels had been found she was in such a 
state of rage and irritation that her usual caution and cool- 
ness were thrown to the winds. She had a feeling that it 
would serve George right to show him what she really 
thought of him, to pay him out, to make him suffer ; was in 
the sort of mood when, though she would have done nothing 
deliberately to commit herself — she did not care enough for 
French or any one else for that — she would yet take risks, 
almost welcome ‘‘ something happening.” 

Directly her husband left the room she ran out on to the 
landing, not even waiting for her dressing-gown. All the 
rules of the house were as fixed as those of the Medes and 
Persians ; unless there was a party the servants were in their 
own rooms at half -past ten. She had heard it strike eleven 
some minutes before, then heard the motor drive up to the 
door; in another moment Teddy would be gone, and that 
great scene left unacted. She would not have cared if all 
the servants had seen her; at least that was what she 
thought. This is what love means ! ” she said to herself, 
with a sense of triumph ; though, in reality, her mood, out- 
come of the anger and obstinacy of a normally cold-blooded 
woman, was far removed from anything of the sort. 

George ! Who cares about George ? ” she muttered to 
herself as she crept to the rail of the landing. If only he 
could have heard it! If only she could have hurt him 
without making herself uncomfortable! 

Teddy was there, with his coat already on, and that 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 279 

stupid George in his civilian evening dress bending, fussing 
over the luggage, tying on labels. 

Any one else would stick ’em on ! ” she thought furi- 
ously. They’ll only come off — all Teddy’s things be lost ! ” 

Captain French glanced up, and she actually leant over 
the balustrade, waved ; while he showed his white teeth in 
an amused grin. It did not matter what happened ; he was 
going away, ten to one he would never return ; and George 
was such a stick, deserved anything he got. 

“ Dear me ! I’m one short now,” said George, and turned 
into the study in search of another label. 

A moment more and Peggy was round the corner of 
the landing and down the stairs — in her nightgown, just 
as she was. Perhaps it was the one purely natural moment 
of her life, but even then she had been able to calculate — 
‘‘ It’ll take that old slowcoach at least three minutes to 
write another label.”* She saw French, but she knew just 
how George looked — pictured him vindictively, his elbows 
squared over the writing-table as he had been taught to 
hold them at school. 

She was three steps from the bottom of the stairs when 
Captain French caught her in his arms, held her, kissed her, 
every drop of his blood aflame with the touch of her soft 
body beneath the flimsy nightgown, the one glance he had 
caught of her bare feet and flushed face. 

Even then she was calculating. The young man knew 
nothing of love, but he had passion, and she had neither 
one nor the other. There was still plenty of time; they 
had not been half a minute. Still, it was as well to be on 
the safe side, and she was drawing herself apart from her 
lover, with a stifled laugh, when the unexpected happened — 
at it always does happen — and George reappeared at the 
study door. 

“ I was sure I had written another ; it was on the floor. 
I ” His eyes swept the hall in search of his guest. 


28 o 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


traveled to the foot of the stairs; even before the last 
broken words slid, almost mechanically, from his lips, be- 
fore Peggy — wrenching herself free — was at the first turn 
of the banisters, he realized the full significance of what 
he saw; realized, or thought he realized, even more than 
he saw. For with him, as with Mary, white was white, 
black was black, a woman was decent or she was not decent ; 
to throw yourself into a man’s arms in your nightgown 
was not the act of a decent woman but an adulteress. 

It was of no use whatever for Peggy to plead the rights 
of cousinship. “If you can get twelve sane men to go into 
a box and swear that it is impossible there should be any 
impropriety — criminal relationship — between two people 
who are cousins, I might believe you,” he said, with some 
reason. 

Peggy had felt sure that whatever might happen she 
was safe, that George’s family pride would have prevented 
anything in the way of an open scandal. And so it might 
have done if there had been children. But there were no 
children — ^here again the astute young woman had over- 
reached herself — and after all, cold or no cold, and any one 
might have been expected to take cold, half naked in a 
man’s arms, she was forced into that reluctant visit to her 
mother. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


It might have been said of George D'Eath about this time, 
as Susie had said of her father, he was “ disintegrated ” ; 
everything which he had counted out of his own life, re- 
garded as possible only to those sort of men who always 
do manage to get mixed up with shady people, had come 
upon him; it was like a landslip by reason of which the 
greater part of a mountaian may become — almost in a breath 
— the mere rubbish heap of a plain. 

A morbid melancholy overcame him; he could not bear 
to meet people, to be spoken to. Haggard, sullen, sus- 
picious, he went about the estate like a ghost of his former 
self. “ He must have had more in him than one ever 
thought; really cared for that silly little wife of his,*’ that 
was what people said. But this was wide of the mark. 
George D’Eath had cared immensely for himself, and it 
now seemed as though he were cut away from everything 
which had once bulwarked him up in his self-esteem. He 
had failed as a landlord, as a patron, as a country gentle- 
man, as the father of a family, as a husband, even as a 
relation. Or, rather, the rank ingratitude, the depravity, 
the crass ignorance of people who did not know what was 
good for them had proved too much for him. 

He might have languished, have actually died of what 
the old novelists would have described as mortification,** 
had not some spark of real human malice, jealousy, hatred 
awakened in him. Peggy had been a young person of no 
very special family, and he had stooped a trifle in marrying 
her, so certain of her gratitude, the respectability of those 
people who were only just emerging from the middle 
classes. 


281 


282 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


Thus he felt himself doubly deceived, and, declaring that 
one must meet “ people of that sort ” upon their own 
ground, instigated proceedings for a divorce. 

The whole family was against him, arguing that it was 
much better to say nothing of what had occurred, allow 
Peggy to stay on in the house as its nominal mistress — 
“ With some one at hand to see that she behaves herself,” 
this from Aunt Caroline, who found the servant question 
increasingly difficult in London. Even a separation was 
better than a divorce, though that was bad enough; it was 
dreadful to think how people would talk. 

They were all alike antagonistic to George; just as we 
are apt to be antagonistic towards those who bring an 
infectious disease into the house; no matter how blame- 
less they might be, how much they suffer, they have no 
right to make every one else uncomfortable. Here, in- 
deed, was another case in which it was of no use to be 
sorry. 

But for once George did not care what people said ; even 
felt that he would be savagely glad to give them something 
to talk about; was quite ready to scandalize, to hit out. 
Apart from all this — his jealousy, his bitterness, his amazed 
sense of outrage — was that desire for the perpetuation of 
his race; and to do him justice it was not only of himself 
or of Dene Royal that he thought. It seemed that the old 
order of things was tumbling to pieces around them; that 
the tiny fingers of yet another D’Eath might be able to 
guide, not only that particular family coach, but all family 
coaches threatened with disaster — the ditch of democracy, 
the swamp of socialism. The heirs to so many titles and 
estates were being killed, almost every day. “If we, and 
what we stand for, are wiped out, what will become of the 
country?” that was what George was continually asking 
himself, with a sense of horror. 

It was all very well for the aunts to talk ; not for them, 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


283 

not for any one in the world, was he going to tie himself 
down to — for all intents and purposes — a life of sterility. 

The divorce would cost money. The mere fact of Cap- 
tain French being at the front, “ fighting for his country,” 
was against the injured husband; there was practically no 
witness as to Peggy’s supposed infidelities. But George 
had always been as obstinate as a mule. Whatever hap- 
pened he would go on; if it broke him he would go on, 
carry the thing through. 

It was just like Fate — George’s own special Fate, which 
from a sort of obliging, universal shopkeeper had taken to 
itself a likeness of an avid fury — that just at this juncture 
Cleaver, Brown & Son should have intimated that they 
would like to see him on some very urgent business; that, 
unless he could make it convenient to come to London, 
young Mr. Brown would wait upon him at Dene Royal. 

George did not care to make it convenient to go to town. 

If he wants to see me let him come down here and see 
me.” That was what he said, bolstering himself up with 
something of his old self-importance; though the change 
in him was shown by the secret shrinking he had from this 
man’s visit, from any one’s visit, from the very sound of 
the front-door bell; the certainty that, whatever brought 
young Brown to Dene Royal, it was sure to be something 
disagreeable. 

He was right there, and young Brown found the visit 
fully as disagreeable as he did; for it involved a confession 
of something very like negligence on the part of the young- 
est member of the firm. 

The report of Mr. D’Eath’s death in Nauheim had come 
to their ears. They very sincerely hoped that it were not 
true; at any rate, it would be some time before the death 
could be legally proved, perhaps not until the end of the 
war. 

There must be a great many delicate, middle-aged gentle- 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


284 

men in Nauheim, and there seemed no particular reason to 
suppose that their late client — their client, he begged Mr. 
D’Eath’s pardon — was the person spoken of. But still, the 
suggestion of the possibility of such a thing, combined with 
their knowledge of the distressing state of the elder Mr. 
D’Eath’s health, had naturally led them to consider his 
affairs afresh, revise the question of that deed of gift. And 
unfortunately, very unfortunately — here young Mr. Brown’s 
smooth-shaven gills became more deeply suffused with 
color; he did not hesitate, but at the same time he chose 
his words with, if anything, a more deliberate care — the 
law was very involved, very inadequate to the real needs 
of such cases. If he had been able to go into that deed of 
gift more closely, given more time to it ” 

“ You came down here on three separate occasions in 
connection with the affair.” George spoke coolly, but it 
did not displease him to realize that young Brown was in 
difficulties; there was some consolation in the thought that 
other people, really efficient people, might suffer as he had 
suffered. 

Oh, three occasions ! ” Young Brown stiffened, on the 
defensive at once, inferring that thirty would not have been 
out of the way. Perhaps you do not realize the intricacy, 
the complications of the law; how impossibe it is to guard 
against, to foresee, every contingency which may arise. But 
be that is it may, Mr. D’Eath, we consider that the correct, 
the open thing for us to do was that I should come down 
here as the — well, the representative of our firm, and ac- 
quaint you with the fact that further investigation has led 
us to a certain discovery in connection with that deed to 
which your father put his signature.” 

“You mean it’s not legal?” 

George D’Eath was standing in front of the fire sfaring 
at the lawyer; he spoke rudely, in a way that he would 
never have allowed himself to speak, even to a dog, in the 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 285 

days that were past. He was less immaculately groomed; 
all his bland self-sufficiency had disappeared; there was 
something about him haggard, savage, and yet almost child- 
ishly resentful, which could not but strike young Brown, 
who — thinking how his client had gone to pieces — was 
touched to a half -contemptuous pity. 

He himself was drilling as one of the City Volunteers, 
had caught up some of the martial coarseness of the day. 
“ No guts to him ! A young man younger than I am — 
but the whole race is effete, worn out,” he thought, relieved 
to find that George imagined the truth to be so much worse 
than it was. 

“ Illegal ! Oh, no, by no means illegal,” he hastened 
to say. “ It’s not likely that we should make any mistake 
of that sort, Mr. D’Eath, though I own we’re human, like 
other people. No, no, this is quite a minor matter. But 
as I was afraid that perhaps I had not made it quite clear 
upon the last occasion when I had the pleasure of meeting 

you, I thought that Well, the fact is, and doubtless 

you are already acquainted with it — that if the donor, in a 
deed of this kind, dies within three years from the date of 
drawing up the deed by which he hands over his estates to 
his heir, or heirs, the recipient is liable to the same death 
dues as he would have been called upon to pay had the 
property descended to him in the usual way. At any other 
time this would not be so serious. But I need not tell you 
that just now, with taxation advancing by leaps and bounds, 
what I can but call the bare-faced mulcting of the landed 
proprietors, the moneyed classes, it assumes a more serious 
aspect.” 

“ You mean that if my father has died in Nauheim, all 
the death dues on what he was pleased to bestow as a free 
gift upon his family and dependents can be claimed as under 
any ordinary will ? ” 

“ Precisely.” 


286 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


And yet you did not mention the law on this point 
when you drew up that deed — what we might call ‘ the 
three-year clause’? What did you mean by that, I’d like 
to know, eh ? ” George spoke loudly, hectoringly ; he wanted 
to hurt young Brown, as he had wanted to hurt every one 
with whom he had been driven into contact during the 
last few weeks. “ You mean to tell me that you had the 
audacity to come down here, at my expense — at my expense, 
mind you— not once, but repeatedly, and draw up a deed of 
gift — for which, no doubt, I shall have to pay through the 
nose — when all the while you knew so little of your business 
as to run me into a difficulty of this sort ? ” 

“ Mr. D’Eath, really, I don’t think ” Young Brown 

broke off tremblingly, almost pale ; never in his life had he 
been spoken to like this. 

** No, you don’t think, you never have thought, you never 
do think, don’t know how to think. That’s what I am 
complaining of. But I think, think to some purpose, that 
you’re an incompetent muddler, sir, that you know nothing 
of your business; that if the English law, with which you 
are pleased to find such fault, was of any use it would see 
you in prison for making false pretenses, for being— 
though unfortunately there seems to be no law against that 
— the damnedest ass that it was ever my misfortune to come 
across.” 

George bellowed out the words as the Squire of Thorns 
might have bellowed them ; he would “ show them,” every 
one of them; he would let them know what he thought of 
them. 

He rode that afternoon; furiously fast, far over the 
hills; spurring on his horse as he would like to have 
spurred every one else with whom he came in contact, 
roweling it until the foam on its sides was stained with 
blood. 

Riding home almost in the dark, at foot’s pace, done 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


287 

to the world, he heard two men talking in the stack-yard 
of the Home Farm, and reined up his horse, stepping 
silently in the deep litter — suspicious, sure that they were 
talking about him, as in these days he always was sure 
that every one was talking about him, his affairs. And 
for once he was right ; during a moment or so one rustic 
voice droned on unintelligibly; then came Davies’s clearer, 
better-educated tones. 

“Well, it’s a pity he don’t join the Army like Mr. 
Charles. What does a young man like ’im want to do 
stavangering about here in these days; ’tain’t even as 
though ’e ’ad a son ter keep the place warm for.” 

“ Pokin’ ’is nose in where ’e ’ain’t no manner o’ right 
ter be.” By now George was more accustomed to the 
sound, borne upon the keen air with its suspicion of frost. 
“ A danged fool — a fool in ’is folly, like a bull at a gaete.” 
It was old Sam Oxley who spoke, cleared his throat, spat. 
“ An’ that ain’t not all, neether. What ’a’ ’e bin an’ gorn 
an’ done with t’ owd Squire, tell me that ? ” 

Back in his own study; without even waiting to change 
his damp clothes, his mud-splashed boots, George sat down 
at the writing-table and addressed a letter to Cherry. 
Davies was to be dismissed ; he gave no reason ; it pleased 
him to give none, would hurt more like that. The new 
blacksmith who was coming to Laishens, and whose accom- 
modation had been a question of some difficulty, was to be 
given the house now occupied by Sam Oxley, who was use- 
less save to make mischief. 

This letter dispatched by hand, he drew his chair up 
to the fire and sat gazing into it, his boots stretched out to 
the blaze. 

For a long while he sat thus, his embittered face set; 
then he began to nod, tired out with his ride, the conflict 
of resentful thoughts which possessed him. 

He woke suddenly with a start and sat bolt upright. 


288 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


The house was absolutely still, so still that the silence came 
upon him with the force of something definite, charged 
with meaning — the actual, half-mocking expression of his 
denuded life. 

The bailiff’s words returned to him. After all, why 
should he not go to the war? What would it matter if 
he were killed, if Charles and Harold followed suit, if the 
whole race were wiped out? Nothing — less than nothing. 

The thought was fleeting, mocking, but all the same it 
marked a state of mind which those who knew him, which 
he himself — above all, he himself — would, a few weeks 
earlier, have regarded as fantastically impossible. That he 
should not matter, that people like him should not matter! 
Incredible, contemptible as the idea might be, it was yet 
fated to take actual shape among the many other incredible 
events of an incredibly changed world. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


DTath was coming out of the General Steam Navigation 
yard at Irongate. It was a bitterly cold afternoon, damp 
and raw from a sunless, brooding day, which had threatened 
rain and then lost energy, even for that. He had been 
asked to see if he could get any tidings of a man who 
had sailed on one of the company’s vessels, and must now 
go and tell the wife — who had turned to him for help, with 
that mazed helplessness, that lack of initiative so character- 
istic of the grossly ignorant — that there was still no news. 
The steamer was not yet posted as lost, but she had been 
long missing. ‘‘ I’m sure there’s no one wants to know 
how things stand more than we do,” said the junior mem- 
ber of the firm, whom he had interviewed. No satisfac- 
tion anywhere; no insurance, no anything. The relations 
of the men feel like that too. I can tell you there’s far more 
bother, more dead loss and disagreeableness, in cases of 
this sort than when a ship’s lost outright. Of course we’ll 
let all the relations of the crew know directly we have any 
news. But until then there’s nothing to be done.” 

“ Nothing to be done.” The world of Wapping seemed 
to have settled down to that — with the gathering dusk, 
which showed no warmth of sunset, as a symbol of the 
trouble which had overtaken Mrs. Began and so many 
others; the long-drawn-out uncertainty and misery, the 
privations which in such a case come to a family always 
just hanging on to the necessities of life, a woman who 
is not quite definitely established as a widow, children who 
may or may not be orphans. The tragedy dragged — with 
no excuse for one real, satisfying orgy of grief and mourn- 
ing, no funeral, no neighborly consolation and help — until 
it became more of a nuisance than a tragedy, ending as 

389 


290 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


tamely as this sunless day. It was just as though the same 
dirty dish-cloth had wiped out what there was of the drab 
light along with the drab life of yet another unconsidered 
man. 

“ I’d be thankful for any news, even if it was the worst 
as cud be,” that was what one wife had said. “ There would 
be some sorter a pension, insurance money. Now there 
ain’t nuffin’, and I dussen’t even move inter a smaller room, 
as I oughter do by rights, a-cause o’ the charnce o’ ’im 
turnin’^ up again. Oh, yes, ’e was a good enuff man ter me 
and the children — but what can yer do when yer don’t know 
where yer are? Nuffin’ settled ” 

The phrase caught D’Eath like the flick of a whip — 
“ Nuffin* settled ! ” “ Everything settled ” — Dene Royal and 
Wapping! Was the whole world alike in its desire for a 
well-defined routine, whatever the cost? 

“ I don’t believe any one really cares much about any 
one else,” he thought dejectedly, then remembered Susie 
and her glowing romance. But Susie was young — Mrs. 
Degan might have loved her man like that when she was 
young. Treherne pretended to think that it was a matter 
of blood pressure and gastric juices more than anything 
else — sneered while he suffered. Who was it designated 
love — as</‘ a glamor cast by nature for the perpetuation of 
the species”?. Well, there was something in that. He 
thought of George and Peggy and their child. George did 
not really care for any one but himself ; wished to see 
himself repeated, reiterated by a stable civilization which 
kept people in their rightful places. 

As he turned into St. Katharine’s Way some one touched 
him on the sleeve. “ Just the very identical cove I was 
after. ’Ere’s a laedy as was goin’ ter your place after the 
doctor.” It was ’Rene, flushed, round-faced as ever, and yet 
with that look which she had worn since Alf’s death, as of 
a child who had been slapped and doesn’t know why. 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


291 


“ She loved him,” he thought, even at this moment ; 
then again, “ No, she didn’t ; not until he seemed to be 
happy with another woman, she had left him.” He turned 

“ Who ” he began ; then — with a feeling as though he 

were slowly drawing remembrance to him out of another 
world — realized that the person whom ’Rene escorted was 
Mrs. Ian Paulton. 

She was wrapped in a long fur coat, but instead of a 
hat wore a dark gray veil with a narrow white border 
across the forehead ; her head drooped, her eyes were 
raised. It was with difficulty that Hugh D’Eath prevented 
himself from smiling in her face; to be brought back from 
the depths — for this ! 

She was in the Minories, lookin’ fur all the world 
like an old ’en as ’as laid an egg and cudn’t not remember 
where. I ’card ’er askin’ a beak the way ter Wappin’ Old 
Stairs, an’ somefing about the doctor, an* seein’ as ’ow I 
was cornin’ along ’ere meself, I was willin’ ter oblige. I 
was just a-tellin’ ’er about you — well, just this very minute 
when we ran inter yer, so ter speak.” 

“You don’t remember me?” Mrs. Paulton sighed, then 
smiled wistfully, as though she were still trying to bear 
with the world as it was. 

“ Oh, yes, of course I remember you,” said D’Eath, stut- 
tering a little between amusement and bewilderment ; “ only 
I can’t understand ” 

“ She’s on some sorter lay fur fittin’ out all the kids 
in the East End wiv cradles or such like,” explained Mrs. 
Phillips. She spoke politely, as though she felt it incum- 
bent upon her to do the honors; but there was something 
in the lift of her chin which showed antagonism, dislike. 
“I tells ’er as ’ow I don’t know what it’s like up West; 
but ’ereabouts the kids like ter be cuddled warm along o’ 
their mammies ! ” 

“You were coming to see Doctor Treherne?” 


292 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


Yes, we — some other ladies and myself — dear, devoted 
things — are dividing up the slums between us.” 

“ As though it wur caeke ! ” muttered ’Rene. 

“We have a list with the names of all the medical men 
and clergymen. I chose Wapping because it’s so — ^you 
know, Dickens, and all that — so romantic. One must do 
something in this terrible war, don’t you see?” She 
paused, sighed, pulling her furs more closely around her, 
“ I dare say you’ve seen our photos in the papers — ‘ The 
Rescuers of the Race,’ that’s what they call us. And really 
it does seem to me, to all of us, that the young life of 
the country is so frightfully important. This young 
woman, now, married — not that it matters whether they 
are married or not, all that must be swept aside, we simply 
can’t afford to let it matter — a fine young woman, so strong 
and healthy! And yet she tells me she has no children. 
You did, didn’t you, tell me that you hadn’t- any chil- 
dren? ” Her vague, indifferent glance rested for a moment 
upon ’Rene. 

“ Talkin’ 1 ” cried Mrs. Phillips. “ An’ ’ow many ’ave 
you, I’d like ter know? Question for question, fair play’s 
a jewel 1 ” 

Mrs. Paulton’s pale cheek flushed a trifle, while her 
gaze became even more definitely detached. 

“ Now, we hold that it’s the duty of every woman 
in these days, not so much to have a child as to 
see that it is reared under the best, the most hy- 
gienic ” 

“ Yappin’ ! ” broke in ’Rene again. “ You as ain’t got 
one o’ your own, couldn’t ’ave, not if yer wanted to! 
’Cause why, it taekes two ter that job, an’ no man as 
was a man ” 

“ ’Rene ! ” cried D’Eath, in a sudden panic. 

“ Garn ! ’Er ter be talkin’ ! ’Er ! More like a strip 
o’ tripe nor anyfing I ever seed in the way o’ a female. 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


293 


’Er an’ ’er b banana stunt — ’er gettin’ in the paepers ; 

’er what they gives yer fur yer money ! ” 

“ ’Rene!” 

“ Orl right, ole dear, don’t yer worry I ” ’Rene smiled 
at him broadly, her eyes full of angry tears; then swung 
round, put out her tongue in the direction of Mrs. Paulton’s 
shoulder, and moved off, muttering. 

‘‘ It’s very cold, don’t you think ? ” remarked that 

lady. And if we could find somewhere to sit 

down ” 

D’Eath had a sort of idea that she was trembling beneath 

the flower-seller’s scorn; but she turned it off with a little 
laugh. “ They are so dear, so original, such a study, these 
slum people of yours.” 

“ We’re not more than five minutes from the house, if 
you can manage that? We can give you some tea, and 
perhaps Doctor Treherne will be in, or perhaps I can help 
you.” 

“You’re living down here, with him? How funny!” 
For the moment her gaze swept him, and he was thankful 
to observe its vagueness. 

“You have given up making your birds’-nests ? ” 

“ Oh, dear, no ! That’s what is really so sweet about 
it all — everything in life, even this war, all fitting into a 
beautiful sort of — what do you call it? — ^mosaic. That’s 
one of the ideas that’s been growing on me — from 
birds’-nests to babies’-nests. I say it over to myself 
— ‘ From birds’-nests to babies’-nests ’ — quite wonderful, 
isn’t it? For, you know, that is what we are mostly 
concerned with, our * stunt ’ : cradles out of banana 
crates — so perfectly sweet, you know, with white spotted 
muslin and ribbons: pale pink for boys, pale blue for 
girls.” 

“But here, in the East End ” A sudden vivid pic- 

ture of the Phillips’s room as he had seen it the night the 


294 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


child died — the poor discolored bedclothes, the garments 
hung over the end of the bed because there was nowhere 
else to hang them, the tiny mound in the middle of it, 
the wooden horse tethered to the foot — flashed across 
D’Eath’s mind. 

He and Mrs. Paulton were moving on side by side amid 
the crowd of lorries, the men in their leather aprons. For 
all her appearance of languor, her steps were longer, 
quicker than his own; more than once her arm or thigh 
brushed his side and he felt how firmly, how massively she 
was built. If ever there was a woman who ought to have 
had children it was she. 

“ I hope your husband is quite well ? ” The question 
was in part the outcome of his thought ; in part the acquired 
habit of that politeness which among the lower classes 
demands a series of minute inquiries as to the welfare of 
an entire family. 

“ Very well, I — Oh, but I suppose you mean Mr. 
Paulton; he’s somewhere in France, I believe — really, I’m 
not quite sure. We parted, you know, just after war 
broke out. It was starvation, the worst sort of starvation 
— soul starvation — to live with such a man. And so Willy 
and I — you remember I told you about Willy Pyke and 
how perfectly sweet he was helping me with all the odds 
and ends for my precious birds’-nests — so intelligent and 
nice about a house ! — threw in our lots together. Paulton- 
Pyke I call myself now. It didn’t seem kind to quite cut 
our poor Ian, and you know it does so help people to 
remember. Perhaps you will come and see us, if you 
can bear the thought of penetrating into our wilder- 
ness — a dreadful district, so terribly bourgeois, so out 
of the way. I often say to Willy, I wonder what I 
ever did that I should be doomed to live in West Ken- 
sington ! 

"Alfred Carruthers — you know Alfred? Oh, of course, 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 295 

every one does, such a clever, witty creature !— said to 
me only the other day : ‘ Adultery, my dear, that’s noth- 
ing; but to live in West Kensington’s enough to damn 
any one.’ Charming, wasn’t it? Not so very far from 
Chelsea, and yet how different! But really one’s friends 
are marvellous, and of course they all realize that we’re 
not in the least like all the other people living there, so 
dreadfully stodgy and proper ! But a terrible old aunt of 
Willy’s left him the house, and so we have to put up with 
it — the war and all, you know. Is this where you live? 
A-h-h! now I do call this perfectly sweet! After the 
divorce — we couldn’t go on living in West Kensington 
after we were married, two dreadful stodgy things at the 
same time — matrimony and West Kensington — ^too depress- 
ing, don’t you know — we really might come here, set the 
fashion.” 

Susie and Miss Villiers — who had taken to joining the 
party at tea — were in the big room at the pier-end house 
waiting for him, but to D’Eath’s relief Mrs. Paulton-Pyke 
scarcely seemed to see them. “Your daughter? Oh, but 
how perfectly lovely to have a daughter ! ” she said as she 
was introduced. Then her glance ran past the girl to the 
room. “ What a perfectly fascinating room ! — It’s not only 
the women and their babies, and the doctors and clergymen 
and people like that, we want to get hold of, you know, 
but the banana merchants who have the crates, don’t you 
see ? That was my idea — ‘ First let’s get hold of the 
banana merchants,’ I said. And naturally, of course, down 
at the docks and all. ‘You are so wonderfully practical, 
dear,’ that’s what they all say, not the banana people, but 
the other members of our crusade ” 

It seemed as though Mrs. Paulton had lost her trick 
of silence with the necessity of asserting her modernity, 
independence ; possibly exchanging it for the “ Pyke.” But 
her words still came disjointedly, with an air of weariness; 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


296 

one could almost see her fingering over her ideas, sorting 
them out, one by one, like any other woman tidying her 
drawers. There were still long spaces of silence, and yet 
she was so engrossed in her own afiPairs that, with her 
habit of brushing aside, breaking into what any one else 
happened to be saying, she gave the impression of never 
ceasing to talk. 

By the time that D’Eath saw her off at Wapping station 
he felt as though he had been wrung out, left twisted. 
From banana crates, babies, birds’-nests, she had slithered 
on, regardless of Susie, into an involved discussion of 
the ethics of married life, of her own life in particular. 
From thence she glanced off for a moment to Lady 
Hester Fielden. “You know she lost her husband. Dar- 
ling Hester ! She’s put up the loveliest window to him in 
some church or other. I don’t remember where it is, but 
I shall know when I get home, because the card’s over 
my mantelpiece — her wedding, you know, next week in 
the same church, and to such a charming fellow, a Captain 
Inglis, a fellow-officer of poor little Fielden’s, and a great 
friend,” 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


Early in February Mark Fulton was sent home, taken to 
a hospital near Southampton. 

Susie received the news at breakfast and passed it on 
to the others. Her face was flushed, her blue eyes deep 
and glowing; but her whole expression was grave, almost 
solemn, as she returned to the perusal of her letter. Break- 
fast over she crossed to the window, and sitting down by 
it, with her hands folded in her lap, stared out, biting her 
lips, frowning a little. Treheme, in a hurry as usual, had 
left the room before the other two stirred; but D’Eath 
hesitated for a while, asked for another cup of coffee, pot- 
tered over his paper, waiting for the girl to speak, fully 
expecting that she would be eager over some arrangement 
for going down to Southampton to see her lover. But she 
said nothing; and after a while, forbearing any questions, 
he also left the room and made his way to the little office, 
where he went over the accounts of the clinic each Saturday 
morning. Passing through the dispensary he found Lucelle 
Villiers busy with some simple mixture. 

Susie’s young man is back in England — in hospital at 
Southampton,” he said, half ashamed of the lilt in his 
voice, the sensation of flushed excitement. Miss Villiers 
was standing close against the high, narrow window, a 
measuring glass in one hand, a bottle raised high in the 
other. Her silhouette was outlined with a narrow penciled 
line of gold against the chill winter sunshine, and for the 
first time D’Eath realized that her dark hair had threads 
of red in it, that the soft down at the nape of her neck 
and edging her cheek was more gold than brown. “ She 
always seemed like a dark woman,” he thought, ‘‘ and she’s 

297 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


298 

really not dark at all; it’s only her eyes, the paleness of 
her skin, which gives her that effect.” Her raised hands, 
particularly the one which held the bottle, were extraor- 
dinarily white, almost transparent; it seemed incredible 
that they should be so strong, so firm, as he well knew 
them to be. She was wearing a white overall which cov- 
ered her from the hem of her dress right up to her chin, 
buttoning tight round her throat; every line of her tall 
form was long and clean and clearly defined. 

'' Good God ! ” thought D’Eath ; what in the world is 
Treherne thinking about not to fall in love with her, per- 
suade her to marry him ? Is he made of stone ? ” 

Even as the thought came to him he realized afresh, 
knew for certain, that Treherne cared for Susie, and it 
angered him. That chit! Darling as she was, it seemed 
preposterous that two men should be willing to devote their 
lives to her, while this — he checked the thought and harked 
back. Treherne and Susie! Why, even if Fulton had 
never appeared upon the scene it would still be the same 
thing. Treherne was at least twenty-five years the elder. 
Folly even to think of such a thing! In his anger, which 
was merely the outcome of a deep concern for his friend, 
Hugh D’Eath — wondering how he could be such a fool, a 
grown-up man, to allow himself to be vitally hurt by a 
mere child — quite lost sight of the fact that Treherne had 
never said a single word regarding what he felt, suffered. 

Meanwhile, Lucelle Villiers was counting out the drops 
which she let fall from the bottle into the beaked glass. 
At last she lowered her hands and glanced at him with 
her pleasant, impartial air, that look which left D’Eath 
uncertain as to whether it held contempt or tenderness. 

"Back, is he? That’s very nice for Susie.” 

" Nice ! Nice ! How lukewarm you all are ! One would 
think it would be something more than — ‘ nice M To know 
her one might have imagined her full of plans, half-way to 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


299 

Southampton already, wild with excitement. But there she 
is sitting by the window looking out — frowning.” 

Oh,” murmured Lucelle, smiling a little as she moved 
over to a rack and took out another bottle. 

“ Oh— oh ” repeated D’Eath, almost rudely, mocking 

her. “You women! Perhaps she doesn’t care, after all, 
perhaps she’s changed her mind.” He spoke with a sort 
of reckless scorn, but all the same the very idea of such a 
thing hurt him almost beyond bearing. That Susie should 
be like that, too — Susie, whom he had been so sure of I 

“ Oh, she cares right enough.” Miss Villiers began to 
shake the bottle she held in her hand, filled with a reddisTi 
liquid, glowing like a ruby against the light. The window 
cut across an angle of the river wall, and a sudden, more 
decided ray of sunshine streaming down, catching itself 
back from the glossy surface of the water, shone against 
-the other bottles in the rack — blue and bright green and 
white. Miss Villiers shook mechanically, frowning a little, 
gazing up at the thick sediment at the bottom of her par- 
ticular bottle, with a faint reflection of color in a clear 
wash across her face. “ She cares — all right — cares so 
much — perhaps she’s — frightened.” The words were punc- 
tuated by the motions of her hand. 

“Frightened! Frightened of what, of him — of young 
Fulton?” 

“ Oh, no.” 

“ Of what, then — of herself ? ” 

“ Not altogether — a little ; but not altogether — ^mostly of 
life. A few weeks ago she would not have been like 

this ; she Would have — have ” Lucelle’s hands had 

ceased to move, but she still hesitated — then used the word 
“ gormandize ” — “ would have gormandized it — gobbled it 
all up.” 

“ I don’t know,” said D’Eath. “ He’s here in England, 
after being through all sorts of terrible experiences. Why, 


300 WHILE THERE’S LIFE 

she herself used to say that we did not half realize what 
it all meant.” 

‘‘ But that was before she was really anxious about him ; 
since then she’s felt more and said much less. Now — 
well, happiness on the top of such pain and fear is fright- 
ening, you know. If she frowned it was probably to keep 
back her tears. Susie has a horror of tears.” 

‘‘Well, still I don’t understand,” said D’Eath, almost 
pettishly. “ I know if I were young, in love with any 


“But you’re not. You’re only in love with love; that 
makes all the difference ! ” 

Lucelle spoke quite calmly, as though stating some fact 
connected with the mixture which she was compounding; 
replaced the crimson bottle on the rack, and, taking down 
another, she bent forward, peering, in her short-sighted 
way, at a slip of paper which lay upon the table. 

D’Eath laughed, half nervously. Of a sudden he was 
acutely conscious of the silence of the room, the steady 
throb of an engine at the farther side of the river, the 
rattle of glasses in the little public-house, “ The Town of 
Ramsgate ” — so close to the pier-end house that it would 
have been possible to shake hands across The Stairs. The 
bargees had just been in for their first morning freshener, 
and the barman was whistling “ My Little Gray Home in 
the West ” as he washed up the glasses. 

“ I — love ! Oh ! but that’s wide of the mark, sheer non- 
sense at my age.” 

“ I don’t imagine it’s the sort of thing which has much to 
do with age.” 

“Well, but now! It’s Susie stammered D’Eath, 

flushing. 

“ Still, after all, you must acknowledge, one’s judgment, 
upon anvthing so intangible as feeling, is largely influenced 
by one’s own experience. If you thought, felt nothing, you 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


301 


would expect nothing from Susie, excepting that she should 
not make a nuisance of herself. That’s the common atti- 
tude of unimaginative people towards lovers. On the other 
hand, if you were in love, as she is in love now, you would 
probably behave just as she is behaving, anyhow, under- 
stand it. Still ” — she smiled upon him with frank amuse- 
ment — “ it may come, even yet.” 

“ I can’t make out what you mean.” D’Eath was irri- 
tated, half pleased, as we are when we find ourselves the 
subject of discussion, in all save family conclaves. He was 
looking years younger than when he first came to Wap- 
ping; there was something almost fantastic in any signs of 
age which he did betray — the fine sparkling grayness of his 
hair, the lines of his face, darting upwards at odd angles. 
For once Lucelle Villiers’s eyes rested full upon him, with 
malice and tenderness, as he stood leaning against the side 
of the window; then she laughed again. 

“ Mean ? Oh, well, when — if ever — ^you are completely 
grown up.” Her rather dim, dark eyes wrinkled with 
amusement. “ Was there ever anything less like a middle- 
aged man?” she thought, “more like a sort of faun, left 
out over night, just touched by the frost.” 

“ Well, anyhow, if I were in love — of course the idea’s 
preposterous ” — he spoke almost angrily, it was ridiculous 
that he should be driven into such a simile — “but still, if 
I were, and the person I loved best in the world had come 
home but of — out of — all that, I wouldn’t just sit/' 

“ Oh, yes, you would,” said Miss Villiers, her languid 
voice charged with sudden, intense feeling — “ or, stand 
rather — with your shoes off. There are Holies of Holies, 
you know. Oh, but that’s just it, you don’t know.” 

“ I think you forget,” D’Eath spoke rather stiffly, “ that 
I have been married, that I have children.” 

“ That makes no difference ; that taught you nothing ; at 
least, I’m sure it taught you nothing. At Susie’s age, 


302 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


before your feelings were blurred, you would have realized 
why she wants to sit still, be left alone, keep away — any- 
how, for a little while. We can all face trouble more or 
less decently, but, if we are worth our salt, great happiness 

terrifies us — terrifies! Oh, I know ” She broke off, 

laughing, almost as though she were a little ashamed of 
her own emotion, turned again to her bottles and glasses. 
“ Ah, well, we need not worry about them, they're young, 
they’re happy. It comes to this ; they wouldn't change with 
us old ones, for all our safety,” she added, using almost 
identically the same words as Treherne. 

Oh, you!” cried D’Eath, moving away from the win- 
dow. “ Well, I suppose I must go and do some work.” 

And the first children already in the waiting-room.” 
She raised one finger. There indeed was the shuffling of 
ill-shod feet, the clang of iron heels. What have I been 
thinking of ? ” 

“ But of course you — with you it's ridiculous to talk of 
age — safety! You and Susie. Why, you're the two chil- 
dren of the establishment.” 

She glanced up at him gravely — “ I am thirty-five,” she 
said. 

“ Oh, nonsense, nonsense ! That's ridiculous ! Why, I 

always looked on you ” He broke off and moved from 

the room without another word, his whole being possessed 
by the sudden thought — “Well, anyhow, there’s not as 
much difference between this girl and me as there is 
between poor old Treherne and Susie.” For the moment 
he felt as though he were treading on air : then, like a door 
slammed in his face, came the thought of Mary — oh, yes, 
Mary was well over thirty — ^his own daughter! Treherne 
might be a very great deal older than Susie, but Treherne 
was in the prime of life, there was no doubt about that; 
while — well, he was nothing more or less than an old buffer. 
Lady Hester had shown him that much plainly enough. 


CHAPTER XXXIV 

It is strange how the same qualities will appear in the 
apparently most diverse members of one family. No two 
people could have well been more unlike than George and 
Susie D’Eath. But they had this in common: both had 
believed themselves to be immune from defeat once their 
minds were made up. , It was to Susie’s advantage that she 
discovered her vulnerability early in life: it came harder 
to George, for it came later. All the same when it did 
come it was in a form regarding which there could be no 
mistake. If his desire had been intangible for anything so 
indefinite as, say, success, he might have half believed in 
the realization of his aims: the idea of what success meant 
might have become blurred. For with many aspirations 
there is truth in the old adage that “ everything comes to 
those who wait, or else they wait so long that they forget 
what they are waiting for ” ; thus a change of aims, a lower- 
ing of ideals will, as often as not, stand in place of 
realization. 

With George the failure was definite, clear-cut; the 
powers against which he arrayed himself immovable. For 
he was up against the English law, as full of strange twists, 
and yet as narrow and indivertible as the English mind. 
Having lost the inherited habit of faith in Cleaver, Brown 
and Son, he tried three well-known firms of lawyers in 
connection with his divorce; he also tried special men to 
whom he had been recommended; but not one would con- 
sent to take the case into court. He had no witnesses as 
to his wife’s compromising position upon that fatal night ; 
and even if he had it would be impossible to convict any 

303 


304 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


woman upon that single count of embracing a male cousin, 
more particularly when the embrace might be taken as an 
emotional farewell at an especially emotional time. Such 
farewells may be seen to take place between comparative 
strangers upon the departure of any troop train. 

It was characteristic of George, his pride, his prudery, 
that — despite his intense desire for freedom — he could not 
bring himself to mention the fact that Peggy — his wife — 
was in her night-dress at the time. Had he done so it 
might have influenced the lawyers. As it was, the most 
they could suggest was that private detectives should be set 
to watch Mrs. D’Eath. Of course Captain French was in 
France, but it would be easy to ascertain when he returned 
on leave. “Anyhow,” as one lawyer said — and this was 
the end of him, so far as George was concerned — “ there 
is usually more than one possible co-respondent in such 
cases.” 

George had never cared very passionately for his wife; 
but, in the bottom of his heart, even now, he could not 
believe that she was actually unfaithful to him, even with 
one man — “Unfaithful enough,” that was what he would 
have said, unfaithful in thought and word, in desire if not 
in deed — nor could he bring himself to the meanness of 
having her watched, questioning the servants. 

It was little wonder that no one could be found to take 
up his case. At last, in despair, dogged, sullen, his dis- 
appointment hidden under an added pomposity, he went 
back to Cleaver, Brown and Son. They had made such a 
mess of that other affair, he felt certain they would be 
only too glad of his renewed patronage — “If I’m willing 
to let bygones be bygones,” he thought. 

But neither old Brown — a milder edition of his son — 
nor Cleaver — iron gray, doubtful of everything save his 
own existence — could be persuaded to touch the case. Thev 
knew very well that the entire family objected to any idea 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


305 


of a divorce, and, after all, the conglomerated family meant 
more to them than George alone. Apart from this he could 
produce no evidence of any sort, and they did not care to 
mix themselves up with failures. They had acted for the 
D’Eaths for generations, but they would not act in this; 
they said so more plainly than any one of the other lawyers 
— because they knew more, were more intimately involved, 
had more to lose. 

From them George went to a man whom he knew to be 
dishonorable, of no class whatever, and came away from 
him sick with rage and shame; went straight back to Dene 
Royal and shut himself up there; would speak to no one, 
see no one, not even his uncles, the Reverend Horace and 
the Squire of Thorns ; not even Mary, hitherto regarded as 
the inexhaustible box of ointment, the mild Pomade Devine 
for all family bruises. 

Life had been brutally unfair to him; how could they 
know what he felt? — he thought savagely. They had never 
suffered as he suffered. It seemed incredible that, with his 
ideals of reserve, his hatred of scandal, he should yet be 
drawn into such a quagmire. He thought so much of him- 
self, his own position, that it was as though he were the 
center of a whirlpool. It appeared as if everything, even 
the European war, was part of a conspiracy against him. 
Why, if there was no war there would be no sort of senti- 
ment hanging round the figure of Captain French. 

At last he got to such a state that he could not bear to 
show his face, even on his own estate: the woman taken 
in adultery could not have felt a more intense shame. 

As to Peggy, she was annoyed at the turn affairs had 
taken; her people were angry with her, tiresome about 
money; but she was not ashamed. What had she to be 
ashamed of? 

‘‘ Poor little me, what have I done ? ” she would inquire 
of all the relations, friends, acquaintances into whose ears 


3o6 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


she poured her tale of woe. She was quite frank about it — 
far franker than poor George, the innocent one, had ever 
dared to be — “ Why, I only just ran down in my nighty to 
say good-by to poor old Teddy — well, who knows if he will 
ever come back alive? But doesn’t that just show? If there 
was anything between us, would I have been likely to do a 
silly thing like that, with my husband coming and going all 
the time? It’s too preposterous of George to sulk, make a 
mountain out of a mole-hill in this way. Anyhow, my con- 
science is perfectly clear, thank goodness ! And if you ask 
me, I believe George wants to get rid of me; has got some 
one else up his sleeve. Those quiet men are always the sly 
ones.” 

Of course George had been forced to make the rest of the 
family acquainted with Cleaver, Brown and Son’s revelation 
regarding that three years clause, the way in which it 
affected them. He wrote to Charles — more aggressively 
than usual, because he felt himself in some measure to 
blame — and Charles wrote back remarking that he seemed 
to have made a pretty all-round ass of himself : adding this 
completely uncalled-for remark — “ I think you are alto- 
gether out of it about your wife and French. He is here 
now. A dashed good fellow, with plenty of horse-sense.” 

There was an insult in this too. It was evident that 
Charles, who had always disliked his sister-in-law, looked 
on George as the only person in the least likely to be taken 
in by her somewhat pinchbeck charms. 

Still it had been comparatively easy to write to Charles, 
tear up his reply, consigning it to the waste-paper basket. 
It was far less easy to interview the rest of the family; 
and it was not only the interviewing, it was the endless 
discussions regarding him and his own private affairs which 
bit to the bone : his turn now to find the conversation drop- 
ping to silence as he entered a room. 

Every one of them had planned out his or her income. 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


307 


calculated it upon the basis of no death dues. Harold, who 
was supposed to be laying up treasures in Heaven, was the 
most put out of any of them; some ultra High Church 
society had got hold of him, and every penny,' apart from 
what must be kept for daily needs, was mortgaged for the 
embellishment, in the way of vestments and communion 
plate, of certain churches. 

There was a Father somebody — “ It beats me what any 
man wants with more than two fathers, the heavenly and 
the earthly,” said the rector, hating all such Popery,” as 
he called it — who was inclined to be very nasty about the 
business, declaring that Harold ought to have had more 
honesty than to make promises he was unable to fulfill ; that 
if he went about it in the proper way, even now, he might 
persuade his brother to make good the deficit, even force it 
upon him by legal means. He was a holy man, but his 
outlook was blurred by a love of money; apart from this 
he did not know the law, and he did not know George 
D’Eath. Still — though he knew it to be unsound— it was 
this suggestion, more than anything else, which kept Harold 
feebly nagging, hinting, with a feeling that if he were not 
a Christian and a D’Eath he could get his own way and 
the better of his brother. 

But though Harold was the worst of any of them, with 
an incessant dribbling out of his grievances — like a leaky 
tap — the others were hard to bear. They were all suffi- 
ciently well off ; but they had thought themselves better off, 
and here was the pinch. 

“ Ton my soul, George, if only you had listened to me 
and left that damned deed alone things might have im- 
proved, as they must do once the war is over,” cried the 
Squire of Thorns, stumping to and fro in a way that tore 
George’s already lacerated nerves. 

Vainly he tried to impress upon them that, if his father 
were dead, the death dues would still have to be met, even 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


308 

without the deed; that it was not the deed which had 
killed him, neither would the lack of it have kept him 
alive. 

But one and all, in a solid phalanx, they set themselves 
to disregard this side of the question: respecting anything 
they did not choose to take into consideration they were 
blind, impotent, paralyzed. 

“ Besides,” as Mary said, repeated, insisted upon, 

there’s no knowing how long dear father might have 
lived if he had not taken that unfortunate journey to 
Nauheim. All alone, too, without even James to look after 
him.” 

It was useless for George to reiterate the fact that the 
visit to Nauheim had nothing whatever to do with the 
deed; he and Mary had been through all that again and 
again, and, like a piece of india-rubber, Mary bounced back 
to her original position. 

That was not all, either. If their father had not been 
driven from his home, Susie would still be there. “ The 
poor child was so worried about him when she was at home. 
If you ask me, I believe she’s lost her memory, like people 
do in books.” 

With the patience of an embittered despair, George 
pointed out the fact that Susie wrote every week, though 
she gave no address. 

Well ! doesn’t that just show that she has lost her 
memory ? ” cried Mary in triumph, remaining entirely un- 
convinced when her brother pointed out the fact that 
Susie’s letters were fully and correctly addressed: that it 
seemed strange she should know where to write to, and not 
know where she wrote from. When he added that the fact 
of the letters being always posted in different parts of 
London showed method in Susie’s madness, Mary declared 
that she had not the faintest doubt poor darling Susie was 
wandering about, not knowing where to go, what to do — 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


309 


“ Just pops the letters in everywhere. And only to think 
of the care I always took of her! Everyone used to say 
I was more like a mother than a sister, even when I was a 
mere child myself. Not that one ever gets any thanks for 
anything, or expects it either,” she added, with a new air 
of moroseness. 

Little wonder that, between his own troubles and the 
behavior of the world in general, George D’Eath was re- 
duced to a state bordering upon despair. But all this 
hectoring had one curious effect. It drove him, so far as 
he himself, his actual person, was concerned, into a state 
of mind much resembling that of a hermit; while for the 
family, as for the public at large, he ceased to care. He 
would not have minded if the details of his divorce had 
been in every paper in England so long as he was suc- 
cessful, though he could scarcely bear to be as much as seen 
by one of his own tenants or neighbors. The backbone of 
his family rectitude being broken, the idea of the name of 
D’Eath appearing in print held no terror for him. By 
degrees, indeed, it grew to seem a sort of way of slashing 
out, and this mood led him into taking what might — to any 
other family — have seemed the most natural course : adver- 
tising in all the papers, even the Daily Mail — and here 
indeed was a smirching, to inquire if there was any one 
who could give any news of Hugh Arthur Clinton D’Eath, 
who was feared to have died in Nauheim soon after the out- 
break of the war. 

And this was not all; he did more than this, did what 
they all regarded as the unpardonable thing, added Susie’s 
— “ a young girl’s ” — name to the advertisement, so that 
it read somewhat like the inscription on a tombstone — 
“and also of Susan Elizabeth D’Eath, supposedly in Lon- 
don, or the neighborhood of London.” 

This done, he shut himself up in Dene Royal, refused to 
see any one, even his own relations, grappled alone with 


310 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


the endless stream of replies, the bogus information with 
which his advertisement overwhelmed him. 

After a while he gave up so much as opening the letters, 
sank into a deeper despair, devoid of hope. There had 
never been any man so misjudged, so maltreated by fate. 

For all this he still held doggedly to the idea that his 
proper place was upon his own property, the center of a 
system; though he seldom stirred out until after nightfall, 
when he would walk for miles, inspecting the hedges and 
gates and buildings, poking up the sleeping cattle and 
sheep; making known his desires, his criticisms, to Cherry 
next day in a series of little notes. 

“ My place is here.” He repeated that to himself with 
the constancy of one determined to remain convinced of the 
truth of his own creed. 

In addition to all this, from being jealous of his rights, 
he grew to envy those with no rights, no responsibilities. 
“ If only I were free like other men of my age, there would 
be a way out of it — I could go to the war.” 

At first the idea was vague, part of those speculation^ 
which come to all of us — even the most unimaginative — 
regarding what would happen if we did the thing which 
we don’t in the least intend to do. 

But the thought grew to a desire: first to be free to go, 
then actually to be gone. He could not have imagined any 
reason why he — George D’Eath — should think it necessary 
to reinstate himself either in his own mind or with the 
world in general, but this sub-conscious feeling must have 
been with him all through that time, or — slow-going and 
cautious as he was — he would not have been so grateful 
for, so ready to grasp at the chance when it came. Nor, 
pathetically enough, did the idea that he would not be 
missed if he did go — unless, as the children say, with ‘‘a 
good miss ” — ^that his place could always be filled — was 
already filled, indeed, by all the people who were so inti- 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 31 1 

mate a part of the real working of the estate — seriously 
occur to him. 

All through that winter, and far into the late spring, it 
seemed that, very slowly, George D’Eath was growing: 
growing to be more of a man, and yet in some ways shrink- 
ing to more of a child, than he had ever been. After a 
time, even, he was brought so low that he ceased to feel 
any resentment against his wife, who, when all was said 
and done, might not be much worse than other people. 

It was late in May when among his correspondence — 
in that sort of envelope which, save for the handwriting 
upon it, would have condemned it unopened to the waste- 
paper basket — George D’Eath found a letter from his 
father; and picking it up, turned it over and over, staring 
at it, afraid to open it, while a strange, excited medley of 
thought went careering through his brain. 

Even when he did open it, read it first standing by the 
open window, then sat down to it, read it again and again, 
it was a long while before the true gist of it — the possible 
truth in the apparently mad discrepancy of its revelations — 
was borne in upon him. And with these, to George’s eternal 
credit let it be spoke, no living soul save his father and 
himself was ever to become fully acquainted. 


CHAPTER XXXV 


When we are out motoring and the gear is on a sudden 
altered, we know that it has nothing to do with us — 
actually, physically ; and yet for a moment we have a feel- 
ing as though the same crank were turning, readjusting 
itself in the very center of our being. 

Somewhat after this fashion things were beginning to 
happen outside Hugh D’Eath, pinching him in the midriff. 

First Mark Fulton appeared, with one leg, for he was 
still waiting to be fitted with an artificial limb. 

Some one came to call Susie, poked a head inside the 
door, throwing forward a casual, ‘‘ Wanted, miss.” 

D’Eath was in the room at the time, and he saw the 
way in which the girl sprang to attention; not as though 
she actually moved of her own volition, but as if something 
which had held her tightly to her chair — a little bent, with 
just leash enough for a languid movement of her hands 
over some sewing — were suddenly loosened, as though she 
were erect all in a moment: wonderfully, proudly erect, 
like some springy sapling which has been pegged to earth; 
and not only her body, but the very heart and soul of her. 
She wore a light blouse, and through the thin muslin 
D’Eath could see how her neck, breast and arms were 
flooded with crimson: it was as though life were being 
poured into her. And yet nothing had been said, apart from 
those two words : Wanted, miss,” while her father knew 
that she had received no letter from her lover for some days. 

This was one of the occasions in which something 
seemed to reverse within D’Eath. Susie had gone out of 
the room without a word ; and yet he knew that, from the 
very beginning, he had been unable to realize one fraction 
of what she felt, was capable of feeling. 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


313 


After a while she brought Mark Fulton upstairs. D’Eath 
heard their slow progress, but he did not move to help 
them; anyhow he knew enough to understand the delight 
which the girl would feel in being of real use to her lover. 

He had grown to know and love the river in its every 
mood during those ten months which had passed since he 
first settled in Wapping, and his first thought, when the 
boy entered the room, was how absolutely right it seemed 
that he should have come with a swift, rising tide, a fresh 
west wind, the slap of waves, the spread of canvas; there 
was something so intensely live and alert about him; not 
so flowing as Susie, quieter, pivoted as it were more surely 
upon its own base. 

When Susie interrupted what was being said with those 
odd, broken sentences which showed her brain working 
even quicker than her tongue, he said : “ A moment, dear,” 
and calmly went on with what he was telling his future 
father-in-law, while Susie’s demeanor upon such an occa- 
sion was an instructive example of the right way of taking 
things from the right person. 

They wanted to be married at once — were not in the 
least daunted when D’Eath pointed out how very little they 
knew of each other. 

“After all we know as much as we’re ever likely to 
know until we’re married,” said Fulton. “ Much more 
than most people know, or used to know, because every- 
thing gets jammed up into such a little space, a little time, 
nowadays. One’s not in a funk of dying, but one is in a 
funk of not having lived. If one doesn’t act pretty quickly 
one may never get the chance to act at all.” 

“ Perhaps, but still there is — well, there used to be pru- 
dence, and things like that.” 

“ Yes, but don’t you see, sir,” the boy’s gray eyes were 
full and steady upon the older man: he spoke with diffi- 
dence, but this was owing to what he felt due to another 


314 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


person’s point of view, not to any doubt of his own. “ One 
can’t, in these days, put off living until one’s middle-aged, 
save up everything — ^the taking of risks, feelings, happiness 
— in the way the last generation did. Though, after all,” 
he added with a sudden burst of inspiration, “ when one 
comes to think of it, it was not so much your generation 
as the intermediates — the generation of old young men and 
middle-aged brides. Nowadays it seems as though one’s 
bound to sort of play young Lochinvar with life if one 
wants to get anything out of it.” 

It isn’t as though you would be left alone, darling, you 
know,” broke in Susie, “ we can all three live together, we 
can have a topping time. There’s no reason why we 
shouldn’t live here, if Doctor Treherne is really and truly 
going to France.” 

‘'Who said Treherne was going to France?” inquired 
D’Eath, with a sudden pang; some one was going to be 
hurt afresh with all this business, there was no doubt 
about that. 

“ He said so himself. He’s said it before, but in a sort 
of ‘ some day ’ way. He means it now, we had a talk — 
the other evening.” She glanced at her father rather 
anxiously, puzzled and a little sad in the midst of all her 
happiness : “ So you see we might as well all go on living 
here, together, some one’s got to keep the thing going.” 
She glanced from one to the other for an endorsement of 
this suggestion. But Mark volunteered no remark upon 
the subject, and D’Eath found himself admiring him for 
not even pretending to fall in with such an arrangement. 

“ Besides,” added Susie, as though she felt that now, at 
last, she had got hold of an unanswerable argument, “ it 
will be ever so much cheaper all living together ! ” 

“ Well, yes ; that was one thing I was going to speak 
about,” said D’Eath. “ I don’t know how you young people 
are going to get on, but — well, it’s like this, you see — ^the — 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


315 


the — ” — ^he rose from his seat as he spoke, for it always 
seemed as if, with any embarrassment, with that odd half- 
stutter, came a feeling as though he must be on his feet — 
‘^the fact is, Fulton, I’m desperately — no, rather ridicu- 
lously, not desperately but absolutely ridiculously short of 
money. Only just for the time being. Things will right 
themselves, a little decision, a little — ur — r — r — ” — he hesi- 
tated, glancing at his daughter — “ Look here, Susie, hang 
it all, but there’ll have to be some sort of an explanation. 
Do you know what’s left out of this half-year’s dividends 
— the little I kept for myself — down to next to nothing 
with the war and all ? Not enough, oh dear no, not enough 
by a long chalk for your wedding frock.” 

What’s wrong with what she’s got on, why shouldn’t 
she be married in that ? ” inquired Fulton. 

“ Oh, no, not this — this rag ! I don’t know what’s 
wrong with it ” — Susie glanced down at the skimpy serge 
skirt — whether it’s shrunk or I’ve grown or what, but — 
oh, it’s all very well for me, here, now. But for a married 
person, an about to be married person, it’s out of the 
question.” 

“ No, of course you’ll want things, must have things, 
faldals ” — it was characteristic of D’Eath that he was con- 
cerned about Susie’s outfit, gave no serious thought to the 
position, the means, of the man whom she was about to 
marry. I suppose,” he glanced at her ruefully, deprecat- 
ingly, turned half sideways, fingering the tassel of the 
blind — “ we’ll have to tell him how we stand, eh, what ? 
Tell him that — that we — well, that we’ve run away.” 

‘‘ Oh, that ! ” cried Susie, “ I’ve told him that already, 
wrote and told him, when he was in hospital — so dull with 
nothing to amuse him.” 

Oh, well then ” — D’Eath was immensely relieved — 
‘‘ everything is clear and above board. You know how we 
stand. I have the very small income I kept for myself ; it 


WHILE THERE^S LIFE 


316 

comes from foreign securities, no one bothers about it, 
wonders how it reaches me, what becomes of it. But with 
Susie — thaFs a different affair altogether. Of course she 
might put in her own claim upon her own account, but it 
would complicate matters, you know. I never realized 
before what a nuisance money could be — the very deuce, 
you know. I haven’t much now, and somehow it seems to 
slip through my fingers.” 

‘‘Well, sir, I don’t think we need bother about that — 
there are so many more important things than money. And 
if Susie doesn’t mind waiting for her clothes until after 
we’re married ” 

“ Oh, I don’t mind that,” Susie sitting by the window, 
one elbow on the sill, turned her head a little, staring down 
at the sparkling water. “ I think I’d rather like to feel 
that I owe things to you. It’s odd, but I wouldn’t mind. 
Only somehow it doesn’t seem quite fair, when there is my 
money. Of course, as father says, if I care to claim it, give 
myself up, say nothing about him ” 

“ Yes,” said D’Eath slowly, “ yes, you could do that.” 
He stared at her miserably, suddenly all the sunshine 
seemed to have gone out of life. “ It wouldn’t seem much 
fun though — all alone, sort of pretending.” 

“ But, darling, if you want to let them go on thinking 
you’re still in Germany ” 

“Of course I want to go on, of course, what do you 
think ? ” cried D’Eath, with all the decision of a person who 
is not quite certain of what he says. “ Wouldn’t you want 
to go on?” he added, almost defiantly, turning to Mark. 

“ Don’t you always want to go on ? ” 

“ That depends, sir.” 

“Depends upon what?” 

“ Oh, I don’t know — I ” — ^the young man hesitated, 

flushing crimson — “ of course I know nothing about it, I’m 
sure you’re right.” 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


317 

“ Yes, but finish what you were going to say.” D’Eath 
had turned his eyes steadily upon young Fulton, spoke 
gravely, with what Lucelle Villiers described as his “ com- 
pletely grown up ” air. 

“ It has nothing to do with me — it was cheek.” 

“ It has got to do with you, and I want to know what 
you were going to say.” 

“ Well, sir, that it depends — of course you know best — 
but it seems to me that it depends upon the sort of obliga- 
tions which you had towards the people, the life, you’ve 
left behind you.” 

He left nothing,” broke in Susie, hotly. “ Why, they 
didn’t want him, they never appreciated him, cared two- 
pence for him. Even the tenants ” she paused a little 

frightened. 

‘‘ I don’t know. I do think the tenants were in a way 
fond of me,” said D’Eath slowly; answering her, though 
all the same she had a sort of feeling that neither he nor 
her lover were altogether listening to, regarding what she 
said; were gravely weighing one another. 


CHAPTER XXXVI 


It was late in the evening of Susie's wedding day when 
D’Eath — who had been too busy to do more than glance at 
the headings of the war news — had his attention drawn to 
George's advertisement, appearing for the first time in that 
morning's Times. 

Life had been moving very quickly during the last few 
weeks. It seemed as though physically and mentally he had 
been a trifle behind-time. The phrase caught his fancy — 
“ behind time." It had its advantages if one chose to take 
advantage of them, dawdle at the tail-end of things, will- 
ing to be caught up by that dark follower who has so little 
to do with actual years, makes his own time. But he was 
not yet ripe for this. He still wanted to catch up, was 
conscious of feeling hurried, breathless, almost harried: 
very busy and yet — more particularly in the first hour of 
waking — conscious of the dreadful old feeling that there 
was nothing very important for him to do: happy over 
Susie's happiness, intensely happy, thankful; and yet all 
the while conscious that other people's lives, other people's 
loves, were not quite enough, after all. 

Mark Fulton came and went. If he were not actually at 
the pier-end house it seemed that Susie was due to meet 
him somewhere, off in a whirl. When she herself was 
absent there were forever parcels and boxes arriving, or 
her Wapping friends, women and children asking after 
her, bringing her strange gifts, the Chinamen in particular 
— jars of ginger, china cups, painted fans. It was wonder- 
ful how, in so short a time, she had impressed herself upon 
the people. 

The more D'Eath saw of Mark Fulton the better he liked 
318 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


319 


him. In some strange fashion the one leg, the crutch, 
emphasized the lad’s vitality — as much of the mind as the 
body — the strong steady pressure of that sort of growth 
which does not end with manhood, which one can, indeed, 
scarcely credit as ending with life. In much the same way 
as Mrs. Paulton-Pyke’s fine body seemed to emphasize her 
uselessness, so Mark’s infirmity emphasized the spirit which 
rises above mere physical disability. 

Now he and Susie were off honeymooning in Cornwall 
and D’Eath was left alone. They had all agreed that the 
wedding should be as quiet as possible. As a matter of 
fact — in intention — it could not have well been quieter : and 
yet it seemed to have left everything in a state of dis- 
organization. The people would not be kept out of it. A 
wedding in East London is of far less importance than a 
funeral ; but this was an exceptional wedding, and the pier- 
end house overflowed with self-invited guests who had 
found some excuse just to run in.” 

Now, while the evening was gathering to grayness, with 
a little chill wind, O’Hagan’s wife was washing down the 
entrance hall, and O’Hagan himself, breaking through all 
rules, regaling certain boon companions in the bar of “ The 
Town of Ramsgate.” 

Miss Villiers was in the dispensary trying to catch up 
with what, by rights, ought to have been finished before 
ten o’clock in the morning; mixing powders and draughts, 
tidying over the shelves, making out lists, writing fresh 
labels. In the ordinary course of events these things could 
have been left until the morrow, and the day which she had 
missed from her routine of work — devoted to Susie — 
picked up in fragments during the remainder of the week. 
This was what usually happened when there was any sud- 
den rush of unexpected work, such as that occasioned by 
a specially fierce encounter between any two opposing 
factions. The amount of stitches required after a battle 


320 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


where bottles — grasped by the neck, with the bottom broken 
off into a series of jagged spikes — are the chief weapons 
being beyond belief. 

At times like these the ordinary routine of a day was 
telescoped as best might be, into the remainder of the 
week. Fortunately the women of Wapping were used to 
being kept waiting: they waited in hospitals, in dispen- 
saries, in police-courts, in crowded little shops, outside 
public houses, without complaint, often with a good deal 
of enjoyment, for to them door-steps and ante-rooms took 
the place of the clubs of the upper classes, the mothers’ 
meetings and sewing classes of the pious. 

After all, time was “ as nothing accounted of ” ; one room 
was soon done, everything was bought ready cooked, ready 
made — fourth, fifth, sixth-hand; meals so constantly re- 
tarded as to become indistinguishably mingled ; for was not 
a bit of fried fish and a hunk of bread in the hand as good 
any day as all that tiresome business of laying tables, with 
washing-up to follow? Even those who did sit down to 
their meals, just “pushed up,” left their dirty crocks to 
the end of the week; and after all when there are two 
sides to a plate why use only one? 

As to the children, they needed no playgrounds, they 
played anywhere — as naturally as an animal will lie down 
to sleep anywhere — and thus, to them, waiting meant noth- 
ing more than an additional opportunity for play. 

It was the same with the male portion of the community. 
As always with people who depend upon tides, they could 
put in hours with their hands in their pockets leaning over 
low walls or against posts : smoking, spitting. There was, 
indeed, only one class of people ever in a hurry at Wapping 
— apart from the draymen who mostly came from else- 
where — and this was the criminal class — slithering quickly 
by, dog-trotting along, close against the wall. And even 
the criminals had long hours of squatting by the river' 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


321 

steps waiting for what the tide might bring their way; 
dreaming over the clicks they had done, might yet do. 

But on this particular day, late as it was growing, things 
had to be kept moving at the pier-end house; for Treherne 
had left for the front nearly a week earlier and a new doc- 
tor, and his wife who had been a nurse — professional 
philanthropists both of them — were coming in next day. 

Oh, yes, everything was at an end. D’Eath leaning over 
the river wall gave a little shiver : felt his skin grow rough 
with an uncomfortable sense of change ; of being, as it were, 
stripped. He was going into rooms in Bloomsbury, with the 
idea that he would still come down every day, do what he 
could to help, anyhow until the new man got the hang of 
things. But he had a feeling that he would not be wanted, 
even tolerated, for long. The couple who were coming 
struck him as being almost appallingly confident and 
capable: weighing, measuring humanity as they weighed 
and measured their draughts and powders. D’Eath had his 
doubts as to how the system would suit Wapping; but one 
thing was certain, it was mere condescending kindness 
which had forced them to the suggestion that he might con- 
tinue to help in the work. He was so sure of what they had 
said to each other — “ Kinder to let the old chap down 
gently,” that he could almost have sworn to the actual words. 

Presently ’Rene came out of the house where she had 
been helping to clean up, to turn out the upper rooms. 

Well, I’m off. I’ve done all as I can see ter do, but I’ll 
be back in good time ter-morrow an’ bring my fings, me 
aprons, me pawn-tickets an’ dressin’ case. Cornin’ an’ 
goin’. Gawd, wot a life, nufhn’ the same two days together 
— an’ alius me as is left, so ter speak.” 

She spoke truly, for only a couple of days earlier the wist- 
ful and unstable, the strangely seductive, “ Kipper ” had 
gone off and got married, was rejoicing in lines, re- 
spectability and the near prospect of an infant, tempered by 


322 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


an out-of-work husband who drank. As to ’Rene she was 
coming to live at the pier-end house to help the doctor’s 
wife in her work, though it was doubtful if the new 
arrangement would succeed, for the lady had already fallen 
out with O’Hagan and his spouse — who were leaving — 
being, as ’Rene put it, so blamed tidy as she’d clean the 

b y boko off yer face as soon as look at yer, more 

pertikler if it weren’t altogether straight.” 

’Rene’s dark eyes were wide and bright, she wrinkled her 
nose and sniffed, staring out at the river. A lady help ” — 
not for worlds would she have been called a servant — 
sounded well, but she was not sure if she would like it. 
Already she had a feeling of being caged in. “ Strewth,” 
she declared, ‘‘ I ’adn’t not thought about a man until she 
said as ’ow she wouldn’t ’ave none about the ’ouse, then I 
felt loike bein’ a sorter female Solomon — not meanin’ ’im 
as ’as the slop shop in Gravel Lane, but ’im in the Bible 
along wif ’is seven ’undred old dears, an’ them there 
columbines. 

“ First one fing then another. And them as don’t get 
married goes an’ dies. It gives me the pip all this ’ere 
marryin’, that it do. I was goin’ in ter saey ta-ta ter Miss 
Villiers. But there’s a laedy just come in as is bleedin’ 
somefing awful, along of another laedy abreakin’ the winder 
o’ the Lights an’ Liver Shop wiff ’er ’ead. Not as that’s a 
reason fur ’er ter go on shakin’ it like them there spaniel 
dogs when they comes outer the water, muckin’ up Miss 
Villiers’ pinny an’ all somefing shockin’ : an’ as ter lan- 
guige, well, I’ve ’eard some in my time ! But there, there’s 
people as never finks o’ any one but themselves — an’ the 
bloke as owned the blinkin’ winder squarking out as loud as 
any o’ ’em. Ah well, I reckon I’d best be movin’ on. ’Spose 
I’ll be seein’ yer ter-morrer, but Miss Villiers says as ’ow 
she’s not cornin’ back no more. A pity, a fine piece like 
that, true gold all through, s’elp me bob ! Since it sorter 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


323 

comes ter this — marryin’ or buryin’ — ^yer money or yer 
life — I’d get a move on me if I was you, old dear.” She 
half-turned, sidled towards him, winked, touched his side 
with her elbow — “ Arsk me ter the weddin’, that’s all, an’ 
never say as yours truly didn’t give yer the straight tip.” 

It was a good hour later when Lucelle Villiers came out 
of the house, found D’Eath still leaning over the wall in the 
moonlight. “ I think I’ve finished everything, left every- 
thing straight now.” She hesitated a moment, peering at 
him through the shimmer of white light which grew clearer 
each moment — “ Mr. D’Eath, did you see the advertisement 
in to-day’s Times?” She spok^ gently, almost diffidently. 

“ What advertisement ? ” D’Eath turned, bending a little 
forward, peering at her, wondering what she meant : some- 
thing in the way the light was reflected up from off the 
river spread it in ripples over her face, showing her smiling 
or frowning, it was difficult to say which. For ’Rene’s 
words had left him oddly excited and afraid : conscious o1 
how much he had been fearful of putting into words, even 
to himself. 

‘‘ I think it must be for you — asking for news of you, 
and for Susie.” 

Oh ! ” cried D’Eath — that confounded moonlight — more 
than ever he felt that he would have given anything to be 
able to read the expression upon Lucelle Villiers’s face. 

That ! ” He gave an odd little wriggle, like a child who 
is afraid it has been found out; “ I say — that’s funny, isn’t 
it ? ” For a moment he hesitated, aware of the inanity of his 
words, his laugh: then, as his companion said nothing, he 
went on with a rush — “ Just like the sort of thing one reads 
of in a book. It’s odd, but one never thought of them as 
real — ^the people who advertise, who are advertised for, 
don’t you know ? ” Again he came to a pause ; but still 
Miss Villiers said nothing, standing silent with the paper 
in her hands. 


324 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


“ Well, I suppose I’d better see what they say.” He held 
ont one hand, took the paper. But he did not attempt to 
glance at it, though the moon was so bright he might well 
have made out the capitals of his own name — for that, or 
so it seemed, would only make things more real: the path 
which he knew that he ought, and persuaded himself that 
he ought not, to tread the more evident. 

I suppose you’re wondering what it means, what it’s all 
about ? ” 

“ It’s got nothing to do with me ; but I think I know 
pretty well all there is to be known. Susie told me some- 
thing ; and I’ve gathered a good deal more, met people who 
used to know you, spoke of you. One doesn’t want to know 
things — but sometimes it seems one can’t help it.” 

“Well, now, don’t you think it’s funny ?” 

“ No.” 

“ Oh, well ! that shows you don’t really know, can’t pos- 
sibly realize. Look here, honestly I thought that I should 
please everybody by what I meant to do, you believe that, 
don’t you ? When, well, when it didn’t — didn’t ” — ^he hesi- 
tated, looking at her half entreatingly, half whimsically — 
“ quite come off, it seemed better to let them go on think- 
ing, well — thinking that— oh, that it had.” 

“ Even to this,” she pointed to the paper ; “ even to sup- 
posing you were dead ? ” 

“ It could not make any difference to them,” declared 
D’Eath with the obstinacy of a man who knows himself to 
be in the wrong. “ As far as they were concerned I was 
dead. They didn’t want me — I dare say they were glad, I 
expect. I’m sure, they were glad.” Once more he paused; 
then broke out again sharply, for his nerves, his conscience, 
were getting the better of him. “ Well, well, what do you 
think? — out with it.” 

“ I think — do you know, I think that if one wants to be 
decent oneself one must try and believe that other people 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


325 

are at least as decent. Even if we know things about them 
— meanness, want of heart, we must try and disregard it. 
Show as much courtesy to rents in their characters as we 
would to holes in their clothes, just look past them. 
And, after all, I believe there are certain things which 
one can pretty well expect into being — affection, kind- 
ness.” 

“ Susie once said that they would ‘ expect ’ me into 
dying.” 

" You quote Susie, and yet you quite realize how crude 
she was in those days.” 

** But the life there — ^ye gods, the life ! She was right 
enough there, she knew that. Besides, as they liked it and 
I hated it, why in the name of fortune, shouldn’t I leave 
them to it? Tell me that. Has Susie never told you what 
we used to laugh about, what we used to call them — the 
Processionals ? ” 

Lucelle gave a little laugh. Oh, I know, and it’s funny. 
But, all the same, it’s more than funny. It must have some 
sort of meaning, because it goes on and on, through every- 
thing — that endless circular movement of custom and belief, 
of nature itself — and one does not get at meanings by run- 
ning away. It is not limited to the ‘ county,’ or the country, 
to one nation, or one world. It’s common to the sun and 
the moon and the stars, and — oh, all sorts of ridiculous 
things — Mrs. Sen and her babies, and love and life. iFs no 
use trying to get away from it, you get out of one circle and 
into another — ^you can’t alter it, only use it for the best. 
Why, my dear, it’s as plain here as anywhere ! Here where 
you can call a ‘ lady friend ’ a something liar, traduce her 
manners, her morals, her birth, and yet mustn’t call her a 
* woman.’ You’ll never get away from the conventionalities, 
they’re the little shadows of great things. I remember once, 
years ago, reading of the appalling scandal occasioned by 
the fact of one of the sultans divorcing some hundreds of 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


326 

his wives, determining to cleave to one only. And yet you 
talk of your county and its rigor.” 

For a moment or so there was silence, then D’Eath broke 
out again resentfully : “ That’s true enough, I know that. 
I’ve learned that. But — well, for me. They didn’t want 

me, and if I could get out ” 

“ You couldn’t get out — altogether out — ^you know that. 
You’ve left all sorts of shreds and fibers of yourself behind. 
Besides, how do you know they didn’t want you? I don’t 
think ” — ^her voice dropped — '' I don’t think you could live 
among people all those years without them feeling — some — 
some sort of affection for you. After all, they were poor 
people there as they are here: your people. If you found 
your son, your family, hard, is there not some sort of 
chance that they might have found them harder still — 
* chastising with scorpions ’ ? ” 

“ Then you would send me back to it? It was pretty 
lonely, Lucelle.” 

“ I don’t think that it would be so lonely now. Besides, 
they mayn’t want you to stay, may insist on holding you to 
that wretched deed. But still, I do feel that you ought to 
give them another chance. After all ” — the corners of her 
mouth twitched — “ you may not be the only person arrived 
at the ‘ dust and ashes ’ stage. Anyhow, let them know that 
you are alive and well — the joke’s become altogether too 
melodramatic for a man of taste. Even if you find it means 
going back for good, you may understand them better, enter 
more into their lives ” 

“ Never ! Never ! ” broke out D’Eath, with sudden pas- 
sion. “ Oh, never — never anywhere, here or there, I’ve 
learned that too. One’s only on the outside. They all have 

their own interests — ^their own families ” 

‘'Well, you have your own family.” 

“Not really — only in the letter. Somehow, somehow or 
other. I’ve let them slip. I suppose I’m hopelessly weak, 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


327 


IVe never held anything — really held it. Now if I had — if 

I had! — oh, the ghost of a chance of starting again ” 

His voice shook, he was trembling from head to foot, and, 
strangely enough, she trembled too. They were so close 
together, facing each other in the moonlight, that it seemed 
as though the very air between was warmed, moved. 
D’Eath put one hand out and touched her wrist, tentatively. 
He was biting in his under lip like a child, his eyes were 
wide. To Lucelle Villiers it seemed that in another moment 
they might do something wild — laugh, embrace with abso- 
lute abandonment — middle-aged people — she flicked herself 
with the thought, and caught back something of her accus- 
tomed nonchalance. 

“ Perhaps now, you may get them back.” 

“ But I don’t want them back, that’s the hopeless part 
of it all. It’s too late ; we’re miles apart. One must fetter 
one’s children very, oh, very closely with love while they 
are children if one wants to keep anything of them later 
on — I’ve learned that too. And something else — I — 
Lucelle ” 

“ Yes?” 

“My dear, I’m frightfully old, and pretty much of a 
fool, and I’ve never been very certain of anything, but — 
oh, now I’m certain — certain — frowning certain,’ like 
Susie ’’-—he tried to laugh, but the tears were in his eyes 
— “that if you could bring yourself to help me I could 
face anybody ; could face ” — he gave a half-truculent little 
movement, glancing at her sideways in his own odd way 
— “ well, even face the family— my family.” 


CHAPTER XXXVII 


George D’Eath was giving a luncheon party to which all 
the relations were invited. 

In the old days this would have seemed the proper sort 
of luncheon party, almost inevitable. But by this time the 
feeling between the head of the family and the other mem- 
bers of it had arrived at such a state of tension that the 
invitation was hailed with amazement ; apart from this was 
the general amazement that George should even think of 
giving any sort of a party : “ cheeseparing,” “ unfortunate ” 
George ! 

The three sisters were all at Buttons, for Vera's husband 
was out in France and she was expecting a baby. George 
had been disagreeable about that too, for of course there 
were all Peggy's baby clothes — Mary herself had put them 
away, knew exactly where they were. It seemed ridiculous 
that Vera should be forced to spend money upon such 
things. But, for all that, George would not allow her to 
have them; though, as Mary pointed out to him, he could 
not possibly need them, was never likely to have another 
child; while, supposing that neither Charles nor Harold 
married, Vera's infant would ultimately succeed to Dene 
Royal. 

“ Really, George, I don't know what's come to you,” she 
added. “ Any one but you would think it so nice for the 
new little heir to have poor darling baby's things ; and I’m 
sure if he's in heaven, as of course he is, and can know 
what becomes of them, he will be only too pleased, 
touched.” 

These arguments seemed so unanswerable to Mary, that 
she could scarcely believe the evidence of her senses when 

323 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


329 

they failed to touch George, who had always been so rea- 
sonable, economical. 

Charles was home on short leave, staying at Thorns with 
old Roger Colburn: everything which George did had once 
been right, now Charles was the favorite. The two aunts 
were at the Rectory. Of course it was only a chance, but 
it almost seemed as though George must have collected them 
on purpose. 

“ Ten to one he’s come across some sour claret, wants 
to poison the lot of us ! ” that’s what Roger Colburn said : 
while Mary, who declared that she had been given a soiled 
napkin last time she lunched with her brother, went to see 
if it were possible for the same thing to happen again. 

Indeed, they all accepted for some reason or other; Aunt 
Caroline because she felt that it was Christian to forgive 
and was ready wdth a suggestion that she and Gertie should 
come and keep house for their nephew. “ That napkin 
affair, well, doesn’t that show how everything is being let 
go, anyhow ? ” she declared to Mary, stealing her grievance. 

“ And James not properly dressed when I called there at 
three o’clock one afternoon ! My dear, one really does not 
know what things may not come to in a house which is left 
entirely to men.” This from Mrs. Colburn; rolled in fat 
like an advertisement for motor tires. 

All alike felt put out because the lunch was at two 
o’clock, when they were accustomed to have it at one-thirty ; 
and they all took snacks in the middle of the morning, 
ostentatiously, because they felt certain that there would be 
nothing fit to eat. 

They arrived in little groups, rather early, and were 
shown into the drawing-room, where George received them. 
Mary had declared that it broke her heart to go to Dene 
Royal in these days because there were never any flowers 
in the rooms; but on this particular day the hall and 
drawing-room were both full of flowers. ‘‘ Really, 


330 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


George,” said Mary, in her pleasant, chatty way, “ it looks 
as though you were preparing to welcome a bride ! ” 

An odd expression came into George’s face as she said 
this. He was standing in his usual attitude in front of the 
fire, which showed more than it had been wont to do at 
such times. It seemed, indeed, as though he had shrunken 
in every way; he had always appeared to take up more 
room than he actually did, now he appeared to take less: 
was almost one of those people who may be brushed aside. 

He turned a little at Mary’s words and began fingering 
the ornaments upon the mantelpiece. “ Poor George, I 
suppose I shouldn’t have said that. It’s reminded him of 
that woman, just when he really does mean to be nice, 
friendly,” thought Mary, with real concern. 

The rest of the family were trying to make conversation, 
politely, as though they were strangers, only Aunt Caroline 
was walking around the room, running her finger over 
things, saying, “ Really, my dear George, you do want a 
woman here to look after the housemaids.” 

Mary could have slapped her. If any one was going to be 
mistress of the Dene Royal housemaids it was she; why, 
Peggy would be better than Aunt Caroline. ‘‘ One can 
really do nothing with those old ones, they won’t be put in 
the wrong ! ” she thought, with a spurt of petulant insight. 

Then George turned round and told them why they were 
invited. “We can’t have lunch until some one else — ^two, 
p-p-people — a-a-arrive. Barnett has gone to Cottingham, 

any minute now ” For once in his life he was like his 

father, hesitating with more of a stutter than a burr; his 
long, large face was white, his eyes unusually bright, al- 
most excited. “ If he goes queer, too, after poor dear 
Susie, I shall begin to be afraid that it’s something in the 
family,” thought Mary. 

“ Still, I — I — I think as we’ve a few minutes to spare, 
the train may be a little late, and perhaps I’d better pre- 
pare you, tell you that — that — I have brought you here to 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 331 

meet, to welcome — our father.” The last words came 
sharply, with a burst of something like triumph. 

“ What ! What ! Hugh ! but he’s dea — passed away — 
in Nauheim ! ” shrieked Gertie St. John — so shrilly that her 
voice cracked on the “ Nau.” 

“ Father ! Impossible ! He — he What the 

devil ? ” 

It seemed for a moment that they were all speaking at 
once. Then the reiterated words — How, how, but how in 
the world did he escape?” detached themselves from the 
incoherent clamor. 

George flushed a little at this, but he made no attempt 
to evade the question. They had all risen in their excite- 
ment, and he glanced around at them gravely, almost 
solemnly. It is felt that if the — the — means employed, 
the course taken, were known it might make it more diffi- 
cult, more uncomfortable for the other English people who 
are, unfortunately, still — still in Germany. I have been 
particularly asked to impress upon you the fact that there 
must be no questions asked.” Once more he had caught 
back his pompous manner, his solemn stare. 

“ But father is — we were told — what can Lord Kidding- 
ton’s cousin have been thinking about ? It really shows how 
you can’t trust any one who has anything to do with the 
Government — that it was father who, who ” — it was Mary 
who spoke, swerved aside like her aunt from the dreaded 
word — who had — had passed away ; weeks and weeks 
ago.” 

“ I am glad to say that we were all completely mistaken. 
It appears that it was another Englishman, about the same 
age as my father, who left England at much the same time 
as he — ^he — left here, in fact.” 

“ Well, there ! ” cried Mary, “ didn’t I tell you I was 
sure there was some mistake? Now, just to think what 
would have happened if I had taken your advice and gone 
into mourning, Aunt Gertie. One thing is that the rela- 


332 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


tions of that other poor fellow won’t have to go through 
all this terrible uncertainty ; dear father will at least be able 
to see them, tell them something of his last moments.” 

The governor wrote to you ? ” put in Qiarles, rather 
aggressively. “ I suppose he said how he was, whether he 
was better? You none of you seemed particularly con- 
cerned about that.” He had moved forward as he spoke, 
stood facing his brother, with reddened face; puzzled, and 
yet unable to determine why he was puzzled. Of course 
civilians had escaped from Germany before this — but still! 

“ He said that he was very well, in fact from the tone of 
his letter it struck me that he considered himself almost com- 
pletely cured.” 

“ There you have that wretched Northcliffe Press I ” — 
began the Rector. “ I always said that things weren’t half 
as bad as ” 

‘‘ And in spite of what he’s been through,” broke in Aunt 
Caroline. “ Well, didn’t I always say that all this heart 
business was nothing more than indigestion ? ” 

“ Really, I don’t see that at all. Aunt Caroline,” cried 
Mary, aggrieved. Every one knows what Nauheim will 
do for such cases. And only to think of the difficulty I had 
in persuading him, persuading you all, that it was the only 
thing.” 

And now,” went on George, ** before father actually 
arrives there’s another matter upon which I would like to 
speak to you. The question of the deed ” 

“ Isn’t it really amazing,” broke in Harold, doesn’t any- 
thing like this show how completely the ways of the Lord 
are, indeed, past finding out? All that dreadful talk of 
death-dues, and now there will be no death-dues after all. 
And yet I don’t know. Really, the people I trusted most 
have not been very nice, not at all so nice as they might 
have been about it, particularly Father Probyn.” 

“ My suggestion is that the deed should be destroyed, 


WHILE THERE^S LIFE 


333 


if you all agreed to it?” George glanced from one to the 
other as he spoke, his face working oddly as though some- 
thing, it might have been human nature, were breaking 
ground within him. ‘‘ I may have been the prime mover 
in the affair at the beginning, the very beginning, though I 
think you must confess that you were all as keen about it as 
I was, once the suggestion had been made. However, let 
that be as it may, I don’t imagine that you, any of you, even 
my own family ” — a bitterness, most melancholy in its ac- 
knowledgment of a house divided against itself, crept into 
George D’Eath’s voice at this moment — “ have any reason to 
be envious of the share of happiness which it has brought 
to me.” 

“ Oh, happiness ! Happiness is a will o’ the wisp. What 
have we ever done that we should expect to be happy?” 
sighed Mrs. St. John; well able to satisfy every desire of her 
well-corseted soul, regardless of others. “ For myself I 
know ” 

“ Oh, tear the damned thing up and have done with it ! ” 
cried Roger Colburn, swinging round upon his staple leg, 
stumping to and fro. 

“You are certain? I don’t want to feel that I have 
given you anything to complain of — again.” Once more 
George weighed them dully, a little contemptuously. 

“ For the Lord’s sake, yes, put the confounded thing at 
the back of the fire.” It was Charles who spoke, but still 
the elder brother hesitated, glancing round at them all in 
turn, waiting for the nod of assent. Aunt Caroline, who 
was the last in the circle, gave an odd jerk of her head — 
for her velvet bow had slipped sideways — then opened her 
mouth; a call to attention which had impressed itself upon 
her younger brothers and sisters, during those days when 
she reigned supreme at Dene Royal, so firmly that even 
Gertie St. John had hung silent on the words which might 
come. 


334 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


But even before she had time to speak,” as she would 
have put it, George had turned aside, drawn a stiff roll of 
parchment from his pocket, was bending over the fire — 
which had struck them all as so strange upon a fine June 
day — and was thrusting it deep among the blazing logs. 

“ I protest,” broke in Miss D’Eath, with a sweeping 
movement of both hands, as though she would spread her- 
self, enlarge her boundaries, her massive chin thrust for- 
ward. ** It’s more than unseemly to settle everything in a 
flash as it were. Like this, after all ” 

** Really, Aunt Caroline, I can’t see why you should be 
the one to make a fuss,” broke in Mary, her head high. 
“ Anyhow, it’s much too late now,” her thin lips were folded, 
her long D’Eath face caught a look of triumph as she 
glanced at the blackening parchment, then turned towards 
the door. 

" Well, I suppose I’d better go and see about the 
luncheon.” 

" But there’s something more,” broke in George ; and 
though it was too late to catch Mary there was something so 
significant in his tone that the rest of them came, as it were, 
** to point ” in a moment. “ Firstly, I must tell you that the 
news I have concerns not only my father, but Susie. It 
seems that Susie has got married.” 

“ Susie ! Susie ! And you knew all this, and chose to 
keep us in the dark? In this dreadful state of uncertainty. 
And who’s Susie picked up with I would like to know? 
Why, she’s a mere child! It’s not legal — it’ull have to be 
annulled. And why — ^why ?” 

As the pelting shower of words slackened, Miss D’Eath’s 
rolling voice detached itself ; she picked up her knitting from 
a chair, stabbed it through with the needles. 

“ Of course I’m nobody, I no longer expect to be con- 
sidered. But perhaps, in spite of this very unnecessary and 
— and it seems to me, most ridiculous atmosphere of mystery 


WHILE THERE’S LIFE 


335 


—and you mark my words, George, when there’s once any 
mystery hanging round a young girl’s name, she’s done for, 
once and for all — I may be allowed to ask — now Mary’s not 
here to prevent me — whether, when you spoke of expecting 
‘ them,’ you referred to my youngest niece and this — this 
creature, in addition to my brother ? ” 

‘‘ Tut, tut — nonsense, nonsense ! Have him here ? If he 
dares to show his nose here I’ll horsewhip him, damned if I 
don’t. Susie, that chit! What’s the world coming to I’d 
like to know ? ” broke in the Squire of Thorns, who had 
eloped with his wife — seventeen in the first year of the 
seventies, and with a waist just under eighteen inches in 
circumference — then, still muttering, he turned and resumed 
his stumpings, before he had time to realize from George’s 
expression — as did the others, hanging agape — ^that even this 
was not the end. 

“ There was one place too many.” Mary had appeared 
in the doorway, flushed, important, hung about with a 
spiritual jangle of keys. “ Collins was always so stupid 
about counting; he hadn’t a word to say when I pointed it 
out to him. I had to go through you all, and even 
then ” 

“ But are you sure, my dear Mary ” — once again George’s 
expression, malicious, amused, gave him a faint resemblance 
to his father — “you haven’t, by any chance, forgotten to 
count yourself?” 

“Of course not, George” — there was a faint pucker in 
Mary’s smooth forehead — “ I went through it most care- 
fully, but still ” Once more she ran it over, counting on 

her fingers. “ Yes, that’s it, I was sure I couldn’t be mis- 
taken : six at one side and seven at the other. The top for 
darling father ” 

“ With your stepmother facing him, my dear Mary — yes, 
seven a side.” 



BY DOROTHY CANFIELD 


HOME FIRES IN FRANCE 
True stories of war-time France. $130 net, 

** The finest work of fiction produced by the Wm. Lyon Phelts. 

" Of war books. ‘ Home Fires in France ’ is most likely to endure for its 
truth, its humanity and its literary value.”— Nation. 

UNDERSTOOD BETSY 
Illustrated by Ada C. Williamson. SI. 30 net. 

** That rare thing, a good book for girls.”— A^. Y. Evening Post. 

Older readers will find its humor delightful. A book that ” holds laughter* 
some excitement and all outdoors.” 


Two Novels of American Life 

THE BENT TWIG 

The story of a lovely open-eyed, open-minded Ameri- 
can girl, her family, and her romance. 50 ntt. 

THE SQUIRREL-CAGE 

An unusual personal and real story of American family 
life. $1.50 net. 

Two Volumes of Notable Short Stories 

HILLSBORO PEOPLE 

Stories of Vermont people, with occasional Vermont 
Verse by Sarah N. Cleghorn. $1. 50 net. 

THE REAL MOTIVE 

Stories with varied backgrounds unified by the underly- 
ing humanity of all the characters. $1.50 net. 


HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
Publishers New York 


PELLE THE CONQUEROR 
By Martin A. Nexo 

A tetralogy that pictures a modern labor 
leader as '‘Jean-Christophe” pictures a musi- 
cal genius. Each volume has a complete 
interest. New edition, in two volumes. 
Each, $2.00 net. 

[Boyhood 

t] Translated by Jessie Muir. 

voi. ^^.Apprenticeship 

Translated by Bernard Miall. 

[The Great Struggle 

XT’ 1 TT ' Translated by Bernard Miall. 

Vol. II Daybreak 

[ Translated by Jessie Muir. 

Some Press Notices 
**The book is world-wide in its significance. It 
is the chronicle of the growth of labor to conscious- 
ness of its rights and its strength to win them.” 

— New York Tribune, 

“A book for the world ; one can not lay it down 
without a sense of quickened emotion and enlarged 
vision.” — The Nation, 

‘‘One of the most momentous books which this 
century has so far produced.” 

— Manchester Guardian, 
“Possesses the literary qualities that burst the 
bonds of national boundaries.” 

— Springfield Republican, 

“It is a book which posterity may well call the 
Iliad of the poor.” — London Daily Chronicle, 


HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 

Publishers New York 


JEAN.CHRISTOPHE 

By ROMAIN ROLIAND 

Translated from the French by Gilbert Cannan. In 
three volumes, each $1.75 net. 

This great trilogy, the life story of a musician, at first 
the sensation of musical circles in Paris, has come to be one 
of the most discussed books among literary circles in France, 
England and America. 

Each volume of the American edition has its own indi- 
vidual interest, can be understood without the other, and 
comes to a definite conclusion. 

The three volumes with the titles of the French volume^ 
included are: 


JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

Dawn — Morning — Youth — Revolt 

JEAN-CHRISTOPHE IN PARIS 

The Market Place — ^Antoinette — ^The House 

JEAN-CHRISTOPHE: JOURNEY’S END 

tovE AND Friendship — The Burning Bush — ^The New 

Dawn 

Some Noteworthy Comments 

** *Hats off, gentlemen — a genius.* . One may mention 'Jean-Chris* 
tophe* in the same breath with Balzac’s ‘Lost Illusions’; it is as big 
as that. . It is moderate praise to call it with Edmtind Gosse ‘the 
noblest work of fiction of the twentieth century.’ . A book as 
big, as elemental, as original as though the art of fiction began to- 
day. . We have nothing comparable in English literature. . *’— 

Springfield Republican. 

“If a man wishes to understand those devious currents which make 
up the great, changing sea of modern life, there is hardW a single 
book more illustrative, more informing and more inspiring. Current 
Opinion, 

“Must rank as one of the very few important works of fiction of the 
last decade. A vital compelling work. We who love it feel that it 
will live.” — Independent, 

“The most momentous novel that has come to us from France, or 
from any other European country, in a decade.” — Boston Transcript, 

'A 32~page booklet about Romain Rolland and Jean-Chris- 
tophe, with portraits and complete reviews, on request. 


HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 

PVBLISHESS NEW YOBK 


BOOKS ON MUSICIANS 

BY ROMAIN HOLLAND 

Author of “ Jean-Christophe,” and called by W. J. Hender- 
son “ The most interesting of living critics of Music and 
Musicians.” 

SOME MUSICIANS OF FORMER DAYS 

Translated from the fourth French edition by Mary Blaik- 
LOCK. $1.50 net. 

The Place of Music in General History; The Beginning of 
Opera; The First Opera Played in Paris; Notes on Lully, and 
shorter but vivid papers on Gluck, Gr6try, and Mozart. 

. . One of the grreatest of living musical scholars. He is also the 
most interesting of contemporaneous writers . . . Written with bril- 
liant scholarship, with critical insight and with flashes of human sym- 
pathy and humor. . . . Every lover of music should hasten to give 
himself the pleasure of a persual of this delip:htful volume which radi- 
ates learning, keen judgment and sympathetic humor.'’— AVc; York Sun. 

MUSICIANS OF TO-DAY 

Translated from the fifth French edition by Mary Blaiklock. 
With an Introduction by Claude Landi. 324 pp. $1.50 net. 
Berlioz’s stormy career and music, Wagner’s “Siegfried” 
and “Tristan,” Saint-Saens, Vincent D’Indy, Hugo Wolf, 
Debussy’s “ Pelleas and M 61 isande,” “ The Musical Move- 
ment in Paris,” and an absorbing paper on the Concert-Music 
of Richard Strauss, etc. 

" May surely bo read with profit by the musically uneducated and 
educated.”— HaU in the Boston Herald. 

HANDEL 

Translation and Introduction by A. Eaglefield Hull. 
With musical extracts, four unusual illustrations, and an 
index. 210 pp. $1.50 net. 

“. . . Written with enthusiasim, but with judgment as well. The 
story of Handel's life is told simply, but with feeling and alacrity of 
phrase . . . will repay reading. . . r ^Springfield Republican. 

BEETHOVEN 

Translated bv A. Eaglefield Hull. ^1.50 net. 

This is, perhaps, the most famous of the non-fiction musical 
books by the author of “Jean-Christophe.” The translator 
has added to Mr. Holland’s famous monograph, in which he 
treats of Beethoven both as musician and hero, so much in- 
teresting additional material that this volume almost doubles 
the size of the original. 


HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS new YORK 


PATIENCE WORTH: A PSYCHIC MYSTERY 
By Caspar S. Yost. Fourth Printing. $1.50 net. 

In July, 1913, Mrs. John H. Curran, of St. Lxjuis, and a 
friend were amusing themselves with a ouija board, when 
out of a clear sky came : 

*' Many moons ago, I lived. Again I come. Patience Worth 
my name.” 

Thus began an intimate association with “ Patience Worth,” 
that still continues, and a series of communications that in 
intellectual vigor and literary quality are virtually without 
precedent. 

An account of the whole matter and the shorter com- 
munications make up the present volume. 

“ Sensitive, witty, keenly metaphysical. Whoever or whatever she 
is, she meets the test that human beings meet.” — Francis Hackett 
in The New Republic. 

“ A mind, whosoever it may be, that has retained abundant vigor, 
distinction and individual savor.” — Lawrence Gilman in The North 
American Review. 

mOOKS BY PATIENCE WORTH 
Edited by Caspar S. Yost 

THE SORRY TALE 

A Story of the Time of Christ. 644 pages. $1.90 net. 

A story filled with action. It brings into close view the 
historical characters of Tiberius, the Herods, Pilate, Peter, 
and particularly and dominantly, Jesus Christ. 

“This second book increases the marvel of the first. A wonderful, 
a beautiful and a noble book.” — New York Times Book Review. 

HOPE TRUEBLOOD 

A novel of Mid-Victorian England. $1.50 net. 

“ A work approximating absolute genius.” — New York Tribune, 


HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 


PUBLISHERS 


NEW YORK 


BY MARGARET WIDDEMER 


NOVE LS 

THE WISHING-RING MAN 
A romance of a New England summer colony. 
$1.50 net, 

“Margaret Widdemer, who says she likes happy stories, 
proves it by writing them for other people to read. . . . The 
book is full of charm, amusing incident, and gay conversa- 
tion; and the interest in the situation holds to the last half 
page." — N.Y. Evening Post. 


YOU’RE ONLY YOUNG ONCE 

Miss Widdemer’s new novel is the story of youth’s 
romance as it came to the five girls and three boys 
of a happy American family. $1.50 net. 


POET RY 

FACTORIES, AND OTHER POEMS 
Second printing. $1.30 net. 

“An art which speaks ever so eloquently for itself. . . . 
Splendid effort both in thought and execution, and ranks 
with the cry of the children as voiced by Mrs. Browning." — 
San Francisco Chronicle. 

“Among the foremost of American versifiers when she 
touches the great passionate realities of life ." — Living Age. 


THE OLD ROAD TO PARADISE 
A collection of the poems that have appeared since 
‘‘Factories.” $1.25 net. 


HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 


BY SIMEON STRUNSKY 


PROFESSOR LATIMER’S PROGRESS 

The “ sentimental journey ” of a middle-aged 
American scholar upon whose soul the war has come 
down heavily, and who seeks a cure — ^and an answer 
— in a walking trip up-State. 

“ The war has produced no other book like ‘ Professor 
Latimer’s Progress/ with its sanative masculine blend of deep 
feeling, fluid intelligence, and heart-easing mirth, its people 
a joyous company. It is a spiritual adventure, the adventure 
of the American soul in search of a new foothold in a totter- 
ing world. We have so many books of documents, of animus, 
or argument; what a refreshment to fall in, for once in a 
way, with a book of that quiet creative humor whose ‘ other 
name’ is wisdom .” — The Nation. {Illustrated, $1.40 net.) 


LITTLE JOURNEYS TOWARDS PARIS (J’JJ) 

By W. Hohenzollern, translated and adapted for 
unteutored minds by Simeon Strunsky. 75 cents net. 

'Tf only the Germans could be supplied with translations 
of this exquisite satire they would die laughing at the grisly 
joke on themselves. Not only funny, it is a final reductio 
ad absurdum of the Hun philosophy .” — Chicago Tribune. 


BELSHAZZAR COURT 
Or Village Life in New York City 

Graceful essays about the average citizen in his 
apartment house, in the street, at the theater, the 
baseball park, with his children, etc. $1.35 ^^t. 


HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 


The Third Edition , Revised and Enlarged, of 

THE HOME BOOK OF VERSE 


COMPILED BY 

BURTON E. STEVENSON 

has been revised from end to end — 590 poems have been 
added, pages renumbered, author, title, and first line in- 
dices, and the biographical matter corrected, etc., etc. 

The hundreds of letters from readers and poets suggest- 
ing additions or corrections as well as the columns of 
reviews of the first edition have been considered. Poets 
who were chary of lending their support to an unknown 
venture have now generously permitted the use of their 
work. 

This edition includes the “new” poets such as Mase- 
field, Chesterton, Frost, Rupert Brooke, de la 
Mare, Ralph Hodgson, etc. 

“A collection so complete and distinguished that it is 
difficult to find any other approaching it sufficiently for 
comparison .” — New York Times Book Review on the 
first edition. 

India Paper, 4,096 pages 

Cloth, one volume, $10.00 net. 

Cloth, two volumes, $12.50 net. 

Half Morocco, one volume, $14.00 net. 

Half Morocco, two volumes, $25.00 net. 


HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
publishers new YORK 








/ 


I 


i 

I 


'/ 

fl 

4 





' « 

>; 

* i 

' ’ \ 


>'. i' 

'•S 

« k ^ 

•,‘v. 

# 1 


f 

>,’ . 





/ . . 




{ • 


■■' 1 " ■ '■ . 



:t KfC 


C ■ , ^ 1 


H \ y 







-p ■ 

'^,.' 




-V 


/r . r\-V, 


'*■■ , j!* ■ 4i ■' -All • • •» •. •i' 


n •,. 


“'I- . 



i- ^ J •'j€. ’ jm’ 

“ -'v.’ItW- !? ’i- 


} S 


u f 


« 

« ' i» 





■» • 
« 


• ' ^ - y '.r . . >? • •*t. 



% ^ 


i « . 


*1 


• - *'l- V 


;,i*«we '* 4 - 





. ' ■ ': 



, « 


'•V \ 


•». ^ 7 ' <A-»i * 

/'f?. »,*- , - 



: >/>#■ / V ^ 







I 

t 





■V 


1 


•• ’ 



« 


V 


s. 


» 

r 


% 







* 


« 



I 





t 

I 


\ 

4 






N 

I 


« 




\ 

t 


t 


I 

» 

, 't 

\ 


V 


# 


V. 


I 


V 


I 


i ‘ 

\ 

4 


} 


» 

t 

« 






« 



■ f, 

; ; 

/ 



/ 

C 






